A Song of Sovngarde
by TheDarkChronist
Summary: As an Empire falls, only worthy heroes have a chance to save it. But these lands have been severely lacking in heroes lately, so the Dragonborn must seek out the other greatest Hero still alive on Tamriel. Only that he's not in Tamriel. Thrown into the middle of another devastated land, our seekers will have to join a war that isn't theirs to find the mer that will save their land.
1. Prologue

**Author's Note:** Be welcome, wanderers, to this first story of this humble writer wannabe. I had the idea for this tale while discussing 'what ifs' with a bunch of neckbeards on a basement over a wargame, whom happen to be some of my dearest friends; on it, we explore the possibilities that a bunch of tamrielians could bring to a war-torn Westeros in the later stages of the War of the Five Kings, but we will have time to explore the land they left behind as well as to follow the whereabouts of a certain silver haired queen across the sea. The events of the story begin in the year 300 AC (Westerosi calendar) and in 4E, 203 (Tamrielic calendar) and follow the events of A Dance with Dragons (for AsoiaF) and The Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim. I hope that you enjoy reading this as much as I enjoyed writing it.

For Sovngarde!

The Dark Chronist

 **Disclaimer:** I do not own The Elder Scrolls franchise nor A Song of Ice and Fire, each belonging to Bethesda Softworks and George R. R. Martin respectively. All characters, places and events other than those of my own invention are their intellectual property.

 **Prologue**

The Kamal's head hit the snow with a soft thud, its body following soon after. The nord warrior whipped the excess of cold blood out of his blade, sat on a crate leaning on his greatsword and scanned lazily the battlefield. Most of the almost five hundred snow demons that had attacked their beachside camp laid dead or dying, the later being quickly dispatched by his companions. He watched a nord and an orsimer smashing a demon into pulp with their warhammers while booming with laughter, while a few meters to their right a shieldwall of imperial, reguard and dunmer soldiers steadily pushed back a pack of surviving kamal warriors, supported by Telvanni wizards. The nord nodded his head in approval and closed his eyes while catching his breath, for he had slayed more foes than anyone else.

It had been like that for the past four weeks. Since they had started exploring the northern shore of Akavir as part of their expedition, they had faced numerous small groups of snow demons. According to the few reliable reports one could find in Tamriel regarding the Kamal, the fiends were supposed to be asleep on summer, awakening only on the crude of winter.

'Well, those ones seemed pretty awake', he thought bitterly.

His main advisor, Kareena, assured him that those were probably scouts left non dormant to protect the lairs of their brethren from any intruders that could catch the main forces unaware and undefended. Made sense, since the few first groups hadn't been more than a few dozens in numbers. That had been a month and a half ago. Now, they had faced several groups that could be counted by the hundreds, which suggested that the guardians had decided to awake their kin to deal with the threat their expedition posed. Not that it bothered him; they could deal with them with ease. But alas, they were put into a tight spot by a very large horde of a couple thousand enemies not four days ago. The overwhelming numbers of the horde had forced them to fall back to their ships and retreat from the shores to catch their breath and tend to the worse wounds, but it wasn't long before the tamrielic forces disembarked again raining arrows and destruction on the already thinned lines of snow demons, that crumbled completely under the charge of the armor clad berserkers. By dusk, the snow glowed under the sunset light covered on the cold blood of the Kamal.

Their task, regularly interrupted by the attacks, was going terribly wrong. They had already explored most of the northern and western shores of the continent in the six months since their departure from Windhelm, and there was still no trace of the Nerevarine ever being there. The scouting party he had sent two days ago under Derkeethus command was expected to arrive before sunset, yet there was no sign of them so far.

The nord shook his head and faced up to the cloudy sunset sky, snowflakes dropping lazily into his closed eyelids, melting upon contact. He loved the quietness that came after the battle, during the tending of wounds and loot of the dead. He could just enjoy the freezing breeze and the sound of the waves hitting the shore while others were busy around him.

Just then, the sound of distant shouting drew his attention to the beach, where a large row boat came ashore and a young imperial clad in chainmail and furs jumped from it and came running to where he sat and dropped to a knee, bowing his head with a fist to his chest. The nord identified him as Marcus, one of the men of the scouting party.

"My Jarl, Captain Derkeethus sends me. We found something at a creek to the east that you must see." said the man after looking up again.

The nord nodded and stood up, stretching his muscles.

"How far?"

"No more than a couple hours to the east with full sails, if the Divines allow so. But the coast around the area is rough and dotted with rocks. We had to stay off shore with the boat while the captain and the other argonians swam to the bay to explore. It would be wise to anchor off shore and follow the captain's example by swimming."

The nord nodded again and motioned the smaller man to stand, which he did. Even standing at his full height, the imperial was dwarfed by the huge nord, who towered among his kin, standing even above some altmer.

"Get something to eat and rest for the night. We sail at dawn, and you will be our guide."

The man nodded vigorously before hitting his chest with a fist and bowing his head again, then leaving for the grounded Alduin's Fang, the flagship that served as headquarters of the camp. The nord's eyes trailed after him, to then spot Kareena leaning on the ship's rail. Pulling his greatsword out from the snow and sliding it on her scabbard at his back, the huge man walked to join her aboard.

"Archmage Alemone." saluted the nord as he reached her.

"Jarl Stormblade." acknowledged the breton without looking off the mass of Kamal corpses and tired tamrielic forces. "That was quite a skirmish. If we keep suffering those attacks we might need to return to Tamriel to get reinforcements.''

"No need." declared the nord with a nonchalant shrug. "At this point I'm beginning to doubt that the Nerevarine ever made it to Akavir. Maybe his ship sunk before getting here and we're just wasting resources and time chasing a legend."

"Absolutely not." declared the mage with a dismissive gesture. "You have studied his life as much as I've done; you know that he had plenty of resources to get to Akavir even without a ship. Maybe Derkeethus' discover is the trace we were looking for."

The man's lips curved up on a slight smile.

"It's rude to eavesdrop, my lady. More so by magical means."

The dark haired woman chuckled and turned her face to look at him, her inky locks cascading around her pale face.

"Actually, that young man, Marcus, filled me up on his way to the kitchen." She punctued her statement with a nod of her head on the direction of the door to the first deck. "We are leaving tomorrow, I assume?"

"Yes. The men need the rest, and it's unwise to sail unknown, frozen waters at night. I'll inform Torsten now and organize the watch shifts for the night. Be nice and fetch me some water walking scrolls, will you? I'll be taking you, Teldryn, Ghorbash, Serana and the twins."

''Oh my, what a colorful nice troupe we will be." she commented with evident sarcasm while rolling her eyes. The nord snorted with amusement. She hated everyone he had named except for Farkas, and that was because she had a soft spot for big, soft hearted dummies.

'Big, soft hearted dummies like me', he thought.

 **OOOO**

Noon was still a few hours away by the time the three huge busse-like ships reached the point on the shore that Marcus guided them to. While the companions he had chosen for the trip were being instructed by the breton on how to use the scrolls (sans Serana and Teldryn, who already knew the spell), the nord gazed upon the creek that could be seen on the distance, past the rocks that protruded from the sea like the sharp fangs of a sabre cat. He could see a couple argonains standing vigilant at the tree line past the beach between the cliffs of the frigid shore. The cold blooded humanoids seemed to be faring surprisingly well for the gelid climate of Kamal, which left the nord at a loss of explanations. When he had asked Kareena about it, she just shrugged. 'I'm not even sure what is the biological reason for female argonians having breasts anyway', she had said.

"Harbinger, we are ready." announced Vilkas.

"Good. Let's go." commanded the nord jumping over the railing into the water.

His enchanted boots hit the water without eliciting no more than a slight ondulation on the surface, his companions following at once. He trotted to get to the shore before the spells of the rest of the party faded away, hitting the gravelly beach in less than a minute. He started walking up the side of the hill on wich the few frozen trees where the argonians were on guard stood, noting the lack of wildlife, avian or of any kind, that he had been accusing on Kamal since their arrival. The argonians stood firmly and saluted with a fist to their chests as the nordic Jarl and his party reached them.

"My lord Stormblade," saluted one holding a spear between the clawed gauntlets of his dark scaly armor, "captain Derkeethus awaits you inside."

The argonian pointed his free hand to a narrow crack between two large boulders some meters behind them, among the trees. The nord nodded his head and walked to it, being immediately followed by his party and the two argonians. As they reached it, the leader of the expedition noticed that the entrance wasn't as narrow as he had first thought, but still a bit too narrow for his taste and size. The argonians took positions at either side of him, keeping watch on the area while they explored the grotto. He entered first, motioning his companions to enter behind him. As darkness engulfed him, he got to catch a muttered comment by Serana.

"Another cave. Just fucking wonderful..."

 **OOOO**

The cave opened up shortly after the entrance, but the darkness didn't diminish on the slightless. He casted a simple candlelight spell, being mimicked by Karina and Teldryn. Everyone kept their mouths shut, sans for Serana who couldn't quit commenting on the dampness, foul smell and thick air inside the tunnel. After some five minutes of constantly following the tunnel downhill, they finally saw some light ahead. The party casted down their candlelights and emerged into a wide chamber, easily five meters to the ceiling and extending around fifty square meters. The cavern was occupied by four argonians, three of them mousing around the chamber and one crouched near a large stone tablet at the far end of the chamber. On two neat rows at either side of the cave could be seen several mounds of stones intertwirled with weeds and thorns, some being scrutinized by the other argonians. From open cracks and holes on the ceiling of the chamber light spilled into the place casting golden beams, in which the dots of dust were clearly visible lazily floating around, as well as letting in some much needed fresh air.

Once the steps of the nord and his followers echoed into the chamber, all four humanoids stood at attention and saluted. The one that had been crouching crossed the cave on long strides and bowed his horned head to the nord.

"My Jarl, I thank you for your swift arrival. Please, come along".

As the group made their way to the far end of the chamber, Derkeethus updated them.

"You see, my Jarl, this discovery was purely coincidental. We were rowing along the shore looking for anything of interest to report when we felt… something. I wouldn't dare to try and explain it on a logical manner, for I am no scholar, but there was something on this creek that allured us, called us to come and see. We feared that it might be some foul magic, but that wizard fellow you sent with us for this scouting…"

"Marcurio."

"Indeed, him. He assured us that he couldn't feel anything foul or remotely magic -as far as the known magic goes- coming from here, but he could definitely feel the pull too, drawing us here. So I decided to come and investigate myself, and so I came, bringing my brothers along. That entrance up there was covered in ice of probably hundreds of years and hidden under the snow that covers this entire wretched realm, but for some reason we knew exactly where to dig. Once we had cleared the entrance, we ventured into the tunnel and found this chamber… and this."

They had reached the large stone tablet at the end of the chamber, and the argonian ranger waved his hand signaling the piece of rock. Along the side of the stone rested what seemed to be really old bones clad in greenish rust that could be remains of armor. Resting on the lichen, mold and moss covered rock laid a ruined and fragile piece of rusty iron (more rust than iron by now), also covered in moss, that in the past could have been a sword. A bit above the sword laid another ruined piece of metal, a metallic band covered on the green and white oxide of bronze and copper with small rusty dents protruding from it. The nord crouched near the stone and took the round band, examining it. It looked like a crown of sorts.

"There is an inscription on the stone, my Jarl." informed Derkeethus.

"An inscription?" Serana chimed in.

She too kneeled on the stone and scratched away some of the moss covering the spot where the crown had been placed. Indeed, there it was, some faint markings on the stone. She held her chin between her index and thumb while studying it, a frown appearing on her fair, ageless features. Kareena peeked over her shoulder, looking at it as well.

"Can you read it?" asked the breton archmage.

"No." The vampire shook her head putting her hands on her hips. "It reminds me of the old runes that the Atmorans used, but they were already forgotten when I was born, and I've never had the chance to study them"

"Well," said the younger woman with a grin getting into one knee and rubbing off more of the moss from the inscription "luckily for us you brought me along for this trip."

Just after finishing her sentence, though, her grin disappeared and was replaced by a frown.

"Well, this is odd. While I do know the old atmoran runes, and they indeed look like this, I must say that this script is unknown to me."

"Not that it matters." commented the nord with a shrug "It won't get us nowhere near the Nerevarine, and this tomb is too old to be his. I guess that our buddy here was some akavi-"

As he spoke those words, he cut himself mid sentence and looked straight at the inscription. He felt a sudden urge, something that drawn him into the stone, like the song of a mermaid. Extending a trembling hand, he slowly reached out for the stone. His companions called his name in concern, but he didn't hear them. Only the call flooded his mind now. Then, his fingertips made contact, and he blacked out.

 **OOOO**

He found himself standing on a snowy field bathed on the golden sun of sunset, before a wooded hill. There was an unnatural stillness to the air, no breeze blowing, keeping falling leaves in mid air and the sun unmoving on the horizon, like when the monks from the Psijic Order had contacted him and Karina during the events regarding the Eye of Magnus three years before. He was walking straight up the hillside, unable to control his steps. The snow didn't crunch under his boots, nor did he leave any footprint. Again he was directed to a cleft on the rock of the hillside, between some trees with white bark and red leaves, with twisted faces carved on the trunks. He wasn't forced to walk anymore, but neither could he move his feet, frozen like a statue before the slit on the earth. Suddenly, he heard a loud caw and noticed a small figure perched in one of the lowest branches of the trees in front of him.

'A crow.' thought the nord nonchalantly. 'Wait, does it have three eyes?'

'That I do,' spoke a soft, shrill voice on his mind 'for I am the Three Eyed Crow.'

The nord narrowed his eyes to thin slits, scrutinizing the bird that pecked at the feathers of its wings absentmindedly.

'Is this a vision?'

'Does it feel like a vision?' asked the voice.

'It does. I've had quite a few.'

'It could very well be one, then.'

'How am I having this vision? It's because I touched the inscription?'

'Aye. "Here lies Brandon of House Stark, known as the Shipwright. Died on the second moon after our departure after a shipwreck along with his entire crew sans myself, Hugh Icewood, page to his Grace. But the monsters outside wounded me, and my end is near. May the Gods of Rivers and Forests have mercy upon us."'

'That's the inscription? What does it have to do with me?'

'It was written in the True Tongue.' said the crow, now fixing its three black, unblinking eyes on him. 'You see, runes of the First Men had power. A power now forgotten, but on its time it was unstoppable. Only the Children could sing the Song of Earth, but they taught men how to fuse the Tongue with the crude writing on metal and stone that they had brought with them from the East. The message is simple, but the True Tongue holds great power, and even the simplest text can held the power of the Song during ages; even through the millennia and the thousands of miles, I could feel the magic emanating from those scratches on the rock. From the rock… and from you.'

The warrior snorted with contempt.

'So this is what this is about? Lusting for my power? What do you want of me?'

'Ah, such cynicism…' the bird puffed up its feathers. 'I see that you have gone through much, child, things that made you see the world with contempt and defiance, that made you more powerful with each obstacle; yet your power is just starting to stir awake. The one who came before you was not as powerful, but he had time. Unlimited time, at that. And he exploited it.'

The nord frowned at this.

'What do you mean? Who came before me?'

'Who are you looking for?'

'The Nerevarine?'

'Are you asking me?' the crow almost sounded amused, tilting his head to a side.

'Where is he?!'

'Where you must go.'

The nord could tell that he was about to lose his temper.

'Cut the riddles.' demanded the warrior, balling his fists. 'Where do I have to go?'

'To the Land in the West. You are needed there. There is a great evil stirring in a land you have never known, and the one who came before you is already here, for he too is needed.'

'It's not my land. Why should I care?'

'I thought you sought this someone.'

'I do.'

'Well, there is your answer. The Land in the West, seeker. Sail to the East to reach the West, and sail soon, for Winter is Coming.' the crow seemed lost in thought for some moments, staring blankly to a distant point to the North. Then it focused its calm and powerful stare straight in his eyes again. 'But before you leave, you need to learn.'

'Learn what?'

The crow cawed, but in the nord's mind sounded a soft chuckle.

 **OOOO**

The nord sprang awoke with a start, almost hitting the head of Kareena who kneeled at his side. All his companions surrounded him with concerned frowns on their faces, but as he woke they stepped back giving him some room.

"My Jarl, are you with us?" asked the breton, still kneeling by his side. "What happened?"

The nord rubbed his face with his gauntleted hand and whipped his gaze around the cavern, taking on his surroundings. He had collapsed along the length of the stony tomb and there was he still, feeling the softness of the bed of lichen and moss below him and the crunch of the broken piece of rust. After passing his gaze through all the faces of the men and women that surrounded him, he finally focused on the Breton archmage.

"I… had a vision, Kareena," said the nord, the words of the crow still echoing in his mind. The corners of his lips turned slightly upward. "I know where to find the Nerevarine."


	2. Shyra I

**Author's Note:** First chapter! I hope you enjoy it.

Some review answers:

 **Zack:** thank you very much! I hope that you find this chapter equally appeasing. And yes, lore powerful (as in incredibly so).

 **Alastair:** I hope you find it as good as the prologue! Had a hard time writing this, I suck at female characters.

 **Zapper:** Zanks

For Sovngarde!

The Dark Chronist

 **Disclaimer:** I do not own The Elder Scrolls franchise nor A Song of Ice and Fire, each belonging to Bethesda Softworks and George R. R. Martin respectively. All characters, places and events other than those of my own invention are their intellectual property. All other intellectual property as songs or poetry or quotes belong to their respective owners.

 **Shyra I**

 ** _'Hell is other people.'_**

-Sartre-

Shyra's eyes were lost on the horizon, at the storm that raged deep within the Sunset Sea. The previous day had been a remarkably temperate one, with a grayish sky but with no traces of clouds and a slight breeze coming from the north. This storm had come out of nowhere, with a sudden change of the wind blowing hard from the west, quickly pushing into the coast; it would reach the village early in the afternoon.

The girl shuddered with a new wind blow that sent chills down her spine, making her embrace the basket she carried tightly. Maybe it was time to return already; she was near the furthest cliffs of Sea Dragon Point, and she would need to walk for two hours before getting back. She looked down to the roaring sea below her, tempted to end her misery then and there, but shook her head to get rid of those thoughts. Her mother had sent her shortly after dawn to pick some mussels at the northern coast while she sewed; she would be waiting for her, and she couldn't abandon her mother. Not now. This late into the autumn the last of the scarce crops from their small orchard behind their hut had already been harvested, and there was nothing to do in the village anyway. Nothing other than being abused or raped by the ironborn, that is.

 _They had come to their village with fire and iron and rage, one chilly and misty morning nearly a year ago. They came on their dreadful longships, just when the few men that hadn't gone south with young King Robb were about to get into the sea in their small fishing boats. The reavers' ships smashed into the beach, turning the small boats ashore into ruined masses of splinters, with their crews of madmen jumping into the land howling like rabid animals. She was with her mother and poor Jojen at their home when they arrived, and by the time they realized what was happening three ironborn warriors were breaching into their house, axes at the ready and monstrous grins on their faces. They cut down her little brother without a moment's thought and dragged her and her wailing mother to the outside, pulling at their hair, into the center of the village. Most women of the village were there already, with bruises and blood upon their skin and torn clothes, some weeping, some outright crying, some too shocked to even react. Her mother kept howling, calling Jojen's name. To no avail._

 _Her eyes darted around the village, still trying to understand what was going on. Everywhere she saw men clad in iron and boiled leather hacking down doors and dragging women to the center of the settlement. She saw Old Oswald, the village's elder, chopped from shoulder to hip with the greatest expression of surprise she had ever seen upon his dead face. A bit behind him, her wife Goodwife Sheire laid with a slit throat. All around her dead men littered the village. She noticed with growing horror that they had killed all the men of the village and the older women too. From the ones they were gathering, the oldest had to be Aunty Myra, and she wasn't even on her fifties, with the younger ones being herself, Gina and Alys. She was starting to understand where this was going._

 _One of the warriors clad in chainmail stood before the crowd of terrified women and removed his helmet. Her helmet, actually. She was lean and long, like a pine, with black hair cut close to the face. Her nose was somewhat large, but not enough to make the overall girl less attractive, with her deep dark eyes and her smug, perfect smile. A hatchet hanged at her waist, and a shield rested at her shoulders. The young woman scanned lazily the women in front of her every now and then while the rest of the reavers came to and fro their pauper homes, taking out any food or valuables they could find and piling them near the grounded ships. At first there were only half a dozen ships, but now Shyra could make out at least two dozens more lining the beach heading north, with more men coming swarming from them and toward the village. She had never seen so many people gathered together in her entire life, not even when Lord Glover and his retainers had came to the village to conscript her elder brother, father and her Rogan._

 _Ah, her Rogan. She wished with all her heart that he were here, surely quite a dashing warrior by now, to fight with her father and brother and the men of the young, brave King Robb against the ironborn scum. Surely the King would get word of this attack and would soon come North to kill those devils, after they were done slaying the lions on their dens. But the poor Jojen… now their parents only had Joseth and herself. Oh, how devastated would Joseth be; he loved their little brother more than anyone. Suddenly she felt very sad, and embraced her still wailing mother in a tight hug._

 _Soon all the ironborn from the newly arrived ships had gathered at the village, with the woman in chainmail climbing gracefully to the top of the pile of crates and supplies that they had unloaded from the ships and looted from the houses. To Shyra's utter disbelief, the thin girl seemed to be in command of the raiders, who watched her with expectation as she looked down into them, hands on the weapons at her hips and helmet back at her head. In a harsh, commanding voice she told the assembled host to march with her to take Deepwood Motte, to which the warriors answered with a roaring cheer, breaking to a trot down the road that led into the Wolfswood. The woman then jumped down from the pile and called a warrior by his name, apparently Harl. She commanded him to keep his men at the beach and ward the ships, and to send a supply train regularly to keep their forces feed and ready; that arose protests from the man, who complained that he too wanted a chance to loot the northern castle. The girl smirked and told the man that while they ripped the goods from the castle he could start picking salt wives from the women of this village. That, along with the lecherous grin that the burly man directed at the general direction on the women of the village, froze the blood in her veins._

 _That night the ironborn took all the women to the longhouse of Oswald and started enjoying their spoils of war. They drank, they sang, they ate and they raped. She had been raped more than any other woman on the village. From the thirteen women that remained alive, she was definitely the most beautiful of them all, said the reavers. Everyone used to say it, that she was the prettiest lass in all Sea Dragon Point and her Rogan the most handsome young man. She disagreed. Sure, she had a pretty enough face, with his mother's soft features and fair skin, but she saw her breasts too big and shaggy, her hair too wild and untamed and her eyes too wide to be true (Gina, old Oswald's granddaughter, used to call her cow-owl, much to her annoyance. That skinny bitch…), but her Rogan was indeed and undoubtedly the fairest man the Gods had ever created. His strong arms, big hands and square jaw, so manly and tough, with that brilliant crooked smile of his… she had already gave her maidenhead to him after the last harvest's fair, just before the war, but it didn't eased the pain that befell her that evening and most of the night. Almost none of the thirty men that were left behind by the ironborn spared her that night, the few that did coming to her over the next days. The nightmare had lasted until deep in the hour of ghosts, when the fifteen ironborn outside of the longhouse came to shift their watch with the fifteen inside. The newcomers had had already their way with the villagers before their shift, and now just ate their dinners and went quickly to sleep, snoring loudly. No woman managed to get any sleep that night, some spending it in utter silence, others quietly crying, all cowering together on a corner of the house._

 _Shyra was too tired and hurt to move at all, with a throbbing pain coming from her abused groin and bruised breasts, tights and neck. She was resting her head on her mother's lap on a fetal stance, who stroked her hair sobbing without tears. Three men had raped her mother that night; nothing compared to the two dozens that had had her, but the woman was already broken from the sight of her little, poor baby being hacked down by those animals. Shyra hadn't wept at any moment, at least not out of sorrow for their current predicament, just for the brutal pain she had endured with every man that night. A part of her still hadn't fully registered what had befallen them, the reality being too horrid to accept. But when the next morning the ironborn called Harl (apparently the leader) had came into the house groaning and stretching their muscles, kicking the men awake and ordering them to start the day's watch while he and the rest catched some sleep, he had commanded the women to wake up too and clean the mess from the village, to return to their homes ('And the Drowned God helps you if you even think of escaping!') and to dispose from the dead. Her mother helped her to her feet, kissing her brow as they both stood and started walking out of the house in procession with the rest of the women, stumbling all along. Shyra could feel something dripping from between her legs. She didn't need to check it to know that it was the wretched seed of the rapists, with probably her own blood. Then, they arrived at the ruined door of their disheveled home. She had forgotten that her brother was still there. Then, at the sight of his torn body, the tears that she had been unable to shed all during her previous ordeal came back to her like a flood._

She was already walking down the beach, having left the cliffs behind her. The longships that had arrived that dreadful day had left a few months later, only a handful men remaining to guard the Motte. The men from the garrison came periodically to scourge the villages of the lands of the Glovers looking for food and entertainment. They learned from eavesdropping around them that the ironborn king, the old Greyjoy, was dead; that the ironborn had called all their captains to some kind of assembly to choose a new one, and that the woman that had led the attack meant to become queen and make peace with the North. That had given hope to the villagers, but it hadn't put an end to the violations. At least they had lessened from daily rapes by several men to a couple ones every two weeks. Still a living hell, but not as unbearable. Her mother was like a ghost, thin, pale and blank faced, going to her daily errands in a mechanical way, like moved by a will other than her own. She still talked to her daughter informing her of the things that needed to be done, but that was pretty much it. She mumbled prayers to the gods every now and then, asking for his husband and son to return soon to the village to drive the wretched demons back to the sea. Shyra knew better than that.

 _Two moons after the longships had sailed back into the sea passed, and there they came again. That afternoon a party from Deepwood had arrived and, as usual, the leaders took her and Gina to the longhouse to have their way with them while their men packed the food they could take from the women of the village. While the other ironborn lordling took Gina on her late's grandfather bed the one that picked her pinned her directly over the table. It was, as usual, painful and harsh. When the ironborn was done (an ugly bastard that the men called Dagon the Drunkard), his foul breath washing over her face bringing even more tears to her eyes than the throbbing pain from between her legs did, someone ran into the building._

" _Dagon, Asha's-"_

 _The ironborn lad was cut off by the lean woman that had taken Deepwood pushing him away and striding into the longhouse. Asha Greyjoy was the name, as the villagers had come to learn._

" _Shush, Stutts. He can see it himself._

 _Dagon, still inside her and clutching her breasts, stood a little straighter and gave the Kraken's Daughter a crooked, drunk smile._

" _Heeeeyyy, cousin! Back so soon? I was-"_

" _Cut it cousin, I can see myself too what you are doing. Pack up everything slightly edible and let's head back to Deepwood."_

 _The Drunkard pulled out of her and rubbed his face with both hands in confusion._

" _Wha… What happened in the Kingsmoot?_

 _The woman glared in his direction, making the drunk take a staggering step back._

" _We have a new king. The Crow's Eye."_

" _Oh…" murmured Dagon, a dark look taking over his visage. While he stuffed his cock back into his breeches Asha sighed and spoke up again._

" _Also, the North has a new overlord. The Young Wolf has been murdered at the Twins, his host slaughtered by a traitorous lord, some Roose Bolton. He has been named Warden of the North by the child king of the Iron Throne, and now his and Frey forces lay siege to Moat Cailin."_

 _This seemed to steer awake the drunk, who stared slightly open mouthed to the woman._

" _What?! Well, we have to do something! When is Victarion coming?"_

 _The girl grit her teeth and looked away._

" _He is not coming, cousin. Our new king-" she spat the last word, "- has commanded him to attack the Shield Isles, down at the mouth of the Mander. He is abandoning the North."_

 _Dagon's gaze fell to the floor, and mumbled something while walking after Asha outside, followed soon by the other ironborn lordling. Gina curled into a ball on the bed, sobbing, but Shyra was too flabbergasted by what she had heard to even react to their departure. Still sprawled over the table, the foul seed leaking on the floor made the only sound inside the house other than Gina's sobs. The Young Wolf has been murdered at the Twins, his host slaughtered by a traitorous lord… 'That means… father? Joseth… and Ro- oh, gods, Rogan!_

 _For the second time since the ironborn's attack, she cried._

She felt her eyes watering again at the thought. She hadn't said a word about it to her mother, nor to anyone else on the village; Gina had neither, but she suspected that her friend hadn't even registered what the ironborn had said. Better to let them keep up their hopes until the new Warden sent help. But months had passed since the return of the Kraken's daughter, and still there was no sight of northern troops… and her own hopes were starting to dim.

Even worse, with winter approaching they could pull even less food from the sea or the fields, and now the ironborn came in a weekly basis. The women were starting to feel the clutch of hunger, and the reavers were more aggressive, demanding and nervous than during the first months. If things kept this way, soon everything would explode, and it was sure to do so in the direction of the villagers.

The girl shuddered again, and pulled her woolen cloak to cover herself a bit more. When had it turned this foggy? It was noon already and the fog, rather than dissipating, was growing thicker by the moment.

She had finally reached the village, and as she rounded the corner of the first hut saw with a pit forming on her stomach that there was a party of a dozen ironborn in the center of the village, overseeing the women piling food on their carts. She saw Gina standing with her gaze cast on the sandy ground with wet eyes, with fucking Dagon Drunkard Greyjoy groping her rear with his left hand, a smug smile on his bearded face. He was holding a bottle on his right hand, talking to… oh, mother.

"Shooo…-" he seemed drunk. That was good; he was not too violent while drunk. When he was left with no booze, though… "-where's your contribushion, hag? Shurely, just those turnips are not all you're giving, eh? And where'sh that lovely daughter of yarsh?"

Her mother's eyes were cloudy, casted on the direction of the man without seeming to fully register him.

"My daughter is picking mussels on the cliffs, m'lord," muttered her mother.

"Ohhh, ish she? Shurely you haven't got the gal to have her run away from here like that other bitch, did you?"

Shyra shuddered at the memory. Alys' mother, aunty Eve, had convinced her daughter to run away from the village after the second visit from the foragers after their attack. Alys being the youngest girl on the village, months younger than herself and a year than Gina, was one of the preferred targets of the rapes carried on by the barbarians. Eve had tried to distract the men guarding the ships with some schnapps bottles distilled by her late husband that had survived the first sacking while Alys sneaked out of the village. It wasn't until when at the following day the men couldn't find her to begin the daily rapes on Alys, Gina and herself that they realized she was gone. Five men went immediately to find her, and that they did, two days later. When they returned with her, bloodied, bruised and with a broken ankle, the ironborn leader (Harl at that time) ordered the thirty men on the village to strip her and take her, every one of them, one after another and with every other woman on the village present, forcing her mother to watch all the while. After a while, the men started taking her two at a time, to the growing horror of the villagers. When the last reaver had done her Harl walked up to her and slit her throat, triggering auntie Eve into wailing desperately. When they let go of Eve she crawled to her daughter's limp form, embracing her and rocking back and forth while sobbing her name.

" _May this serve as an example to clear any funny ideas you might have upon your fuckin' heads, you bloody whores!" roared Harl to the horrified crowd of women._

 _Turning around, he took his axe from his belt and sank it into Eve's skull, silencing her wails forever._

That had kept Shyra and every woman from trying to run away, but at times the girl wondered if it wouldn't be better to just endure a single last day of torment to have her pain and that of her mother finally over with, to be finally reunited with her father, brothers and her Rogan. But at the end, she just clenched her teeth and endured the constant torments and fear. For her sake, and that of her mother. After all, maybe Father, Joseth and Rogan were still alive and trying to find their way back home. The South was very far away, more than she had ever been from the village tenfold. Maybe a hundred times.

"No, m'lord," her mother's voice sounded again, soft and empty.

"Well, she ishn't back yet. And if she doesn't bring your contribution to the taxhes, maybe you should pay ush…" his gaze roamed the still beautiful figure of her mother and added in a lecherous voice "In the way she usually doesh…"

That stirred Shyra into moving. She wouldn't let them touch her mother never again. Never.

"Mother, I'm back" she said, walking past the corner where she had been hiding and embracing tightly the basket against her chest.

Dagon turned his drunken eyes in her direction, brightening up at her sight.

"Ohhh, there you are" purred the Drunkard. He slapped Gina's rear and nodded in Shyra's direction. "Go fetch the mushels, harlot. The latecomer ish going to make up for her tardiness" his gaze focused on Shyra again, grinning like a pig. "Aren't you, sweetie?"

Shyra didn't utter a single word as Gina walked in her direction, with an almost apologetic look on her relieved face. She gave her the basket and started walking up the long slope that led to the distant longhouse as usual, teeth clenched and hands balled into fists. Her mother's previously empty gaze followed her, now replaced by one full of sorrow. Shyra tried to cast a slight reassuring smile on her direction, but when that only increased the pain on her mother's visage he looked down to the floor and continued her ascent, followed by a contently humming Dagon. As they neared the entrance, a cold rain began to pour.

She entered the house, got her now wet cloak off and hanged it near the door. Then she walked to the center of the room and stood inside of the silent and cold building, a slight shiver sending goosebumps all over her skin. Goosebumps that only increased when the ironborn got past the door, obscuring the light that came through. He closed and barred the door behind him and went to sit at the table.

"Don't fuckin' stand there, wench!" shouted the ironborn, falling heavily into the bench alongside the long oaken table. "Go lit the hearth, and fetch me something to eat. I'm starving."

The girl did as instructed, quickly lighting up a fire with a bunch of pinecones. She then went to the small kitchen-pantry of the house, filled a mug with some of the watery ale from the last barrel that hadn't been emptied yet and put it on a plate along with a wedge of old, dry grayish cheese, a couple of sausages and a jar of herrings in vinegar, with a loaf of dry, hard bread. There was little else to scrap from the reserves of old Oswald. She wondered again what would happen once they ran out of food for their cruel overlords.

She set the plate before the ironborn and walked to put some logs into the small fire, followed by the sounds of the man munching the sausages and downing some gulps of ale. She remained crouched by the fire, not wanting to leave the warmth for bloody Dagon's company. As an answer to her thoughts, the man burped loudly, chuckled to himself and resumed his meal. Minutes passed agonically slowly for her, the only sounds around being the man noisily eating, the fire crackling and the rain hitting the slate roof; she knew that the moment the Drunkard finished his meal he would proceed to rape her still aching feminity. How much she hated him. She hated every single ironborn with all the hatred she was able to muster, but the Greyjoy's roughness and fetid stench, along with the cruelty with which he took her had put him on top of her list.

The flagon hitting the table, along with another loud and long burp from the ironborn signaled the end of the meal, confirmed by the man's voice immediately after.

"Tsk. So much for a meal. That cheese was fucking disgusting, and the ale was more water than anything. I hope that your creamy tits are enough to rid my mouth of the taste, huh?"

He finished his comment with a low and long chuckle, laughing at his own brutality. He sounded more sober than before, or at least less drunk. That was bad. He was worse when sober.

"Oi, are you going to stare at the fire till you freeze it? Come here already."

Shyra forced herself to stand and turn around. The bloody arse was already unclasping his belt with a shit eating grin splitting his beard. She started walking over to him, fists balled at her sides and gaze not leaving the dirt of the floor of the house. He grabbed her from under her arms and sat her violently on the table.

He grabbed the collar of her woolen tunic with both hands and yanked, ripping it apart and exposing her chest and shoulders. The man tsked audibly and knocked with the knuckle of his index into her ribs, causing her to wince in pain.

"You are wasting away, huh? You used to be meatier… and yet your titties are just as full as ever." added the pig licking his lips, groping her mounds with his coarse, ungentle hands.

He approached his lips to her face and she immediately regretted her choice of meal when the stench of vinegar hit her nostrils. She closed her eyes tightly and-

Suddenly, she heard something through the sound of the rain outside, like a muffled scream. Her eyes snapped open and her body stiffened even more, gaze turning to the door. Dagon noticed it and frowned.

"What's up, woman?"

"I've heard something…" murmured Shyra.

The man tsked again and pinched her nipple, causing her to release a pained yelp.

"Focus, whore. I don't have all the bloody day" he grunted. He then reached between his legs and grabbed his prick. "C'mon, open up."

The girl sighed, her nipple still aching, and opened her legs. As the man lifted her skirt and was about to shove himself in her, she heard more screams, closer. This time accompanied by what sounded like the clash of steel on steel.

This time Dagon seemed to notice it too, as he stilled himself and tilted his head to the side, trying to hear. Silence greeted them. They didn't hear any more screams or anything other than the rain pouring outside, not even their now stilled breaths, yet a growing sensation of dread was taking over the both of them. Then, heavy footsteps approached the house, quieting just outside the door. Shyra was unmoving as a statue, with her legs open and dreading the approach of the man on her as much as that of whoever was outside. The Greyjoy was as unmoving as her, left hand on her knee and right hand on his manhood. She couldn't help but think that the whole situation would look absolutely ridiculous seen from the out-

"FUS!"

The single word boomed deafening on her ears, like the bellow of thunder. Just as the devastating roar reached her, the door exploded into a rain of smithereens and splinters, which made the both of them cry on surprise. She had closed her eyes tight at the very feeling of the exploding thunder, yet the girl forced herself to open them.

At the doorstep, under the rain, stood a huge form. Lowering itself to get past the frame, the largest man that the terrified girl had ever seen stepped into the house, proceeding then to stand to its monstrous height, at least seven feet and a half. The longhouse was the tallest house in the entire village, and yet the horns atop the helmet of the intruder seemed about to scratch the ceiling. Said horns, shiny and wet from the rain outside, seemed carved into dark, smoky iron, the same material that made the faceplate of the helmet, which revealed the eyes and mouth of the wearer, now obscured in the dimly lit room. His armor was of a yellowish white that almost seemed- no, it actually was made of bone! Immense bones of the like she had never seen. It was splattered on blood, and so was the huge sword (probably larger than herself) that the man carried on his right hand. The blade seemed made of the same bone with sharpened edges, nailed with some black, shiny metal at the fuller, the same that made up the pommel, grip and cross guard of the hilt. From his belt hung several daggers and pouches and at his hips, a longsword and an axe. The helmet turned to face them, and two impossibly bright grey eyes shone within.

In two long strides the man was on them, and his left massive hand closed itself around the petrified Dagon's throat, jerked him away from Shyra and threw him against the wall near the door with bone-shattering force, as effortlessly as if the ironborn clad in chainmail was a ragdoll. Dagon wimped in pain, slumping to the floor in a dishelved heap of limbs. The stranger grunted some words in a hoarse and venom filled voice and turned to face Shyra. The flabbergasted girl barely registered that the man had spoken to her.

"…Excuse me?" she asked quietly.

He repeated his words in a much softer and gentler voice than when he spoke to the reaver, but she couldn't understand a single word from it.

"Sorry, m'lord, I don't understand." she murmured, afraid to incur in the man's wrath.

The behemoth narrowed his eyes and clicked his tongue, with his bearded mouth turned into a grimace, looking slightly frustrated. His bright grey eyes softened again and tried to talk to her again in his calm and tranquil tone while reaching at her with the hand that had just sent the Drunkard crashing into a wall. She flinched away from his hand, terrified, and his hand retreated as if hit by lightning. He dropped his sword and raised both hands in a placating gesture, uttering more words (trying to calm her, she guessed). She didn't want to anger the towering stranger, but his massive size and her experiences of the last year did nothing to ease the absolute fear that the man irradiated into her. When he took a tentative step to the table, she could not help crawling through its surface in the opposite direction to put distance between the giant and herself, trembling.

The armored man sighed in defeat and frustration, his shoulders slumping with the motion. He crouched and picked up his sword, sheathing it on the scabbard at his back to then turn around to face the coughing and whining form of Dagon, on all fours. The behemoth picked him up by the neck and walked through the doorframe, lowering himself as he did.

To say that Shyra was shocked would be an understatement. She was still lying on the table on her half torn clothes, slightly propped up on her elbows, looking at the door frame. Her mind raced trying to put together just what in the Seven Hells had happened. Where did that man come from? Was he alone? Maybe he was a pirate of some distant land, or even a wildling on a ra-

"Mother!" she yelped. She realized that if there were more like this strange man they had to be on the village, with the other ironborn and the women. And her mother was there.

She pulled the torn tunic as good as she could to cover her naked chest and retrieved her cloak from the dangler near the door, covering herself quickly and running to the outside. The sight that greeted her left her as shocked as the sudden entrance of the behemoth, who was walking down the slope still clutching Dagon by his throat. Three great ships, at least twice the size of the ironborn longships, were grounded ashore at the side of the four vessels of the islanders. From them were pouring, even now, dozens of forms that she couldn't identify from the distance. As she approached the center of the town she could make out the unmoving forms of the ironborn sprawled around from the beach to the very front of Oswald's house; some hacked to pieces, their limbs scattered in pools of blood and rainwater, some with crushed skulls and chests, some run through with swords and spears and others, for some reason, savagely burnt by some strange fire or coated in frost. Only three men remained alive, on their knees, weeping openly, praying to their drowned god and pleading for their lives to the army of strangers that kept them in place with queer looking weaponry; strangers that could be counted by the hundreds, as she noticed with growing dread. Then she spotted with relief that her mother and the rest of the women were safe and sound, cowering against the side of one of the houses while a bunch of the foreign warriors talked to them in their clacking, strange tongue with raised hands with the palms outward, in what seemed a try to calm them down.

She approached at a jog the villagers and embraced her mother with relief.

"Oh mother, thank the Gods you're alright!" she whispered into her mother's ear. She looked between her mother and the other women. "Are you alright? Have they hurted you?"

"Nay sweetie," answered her aunt Myra "not so far. But it's too soon to tell, I'm afraid."

Her mother's eyes were fixed on the scene unfolding before them. Shyra's gaze followed the direction and saw the behemoth of a man still holding Dagon by the throat (whom by now was almost purple), hissing his strange words in a rasping voice with his face mere inches away from the gaping ironborn. Then he throwed the Drunkard into his surviving men and shouted four words in his tongue. At the booming order, the foreign warriors killed the survivors in swift motions, sparing only Dagon; the ironborn leader was gasping for air, trying to get a lungful but only getting a pinch. Two men walked up from the lines of the warriors and seized the reaver by his arms. Then the giant turned to the villagers and walked straight to them, forming a pit on Shyra's stomach. He stopped just before her, looking down into her blue eyes from the towering height of his own. He then pulled a dagger from his belt, freezing the blood in her veins as she tightened her embrace on her mother…

…Only to see the man twirl the blade on his hand and offer it to her, hilt first. She looked in confusion into the man's face, then to the dagger, and up into his face again. The man sighed, lowering slightly his hand; he raised it again, offering the dagger with vehemence, and nodded in direction to Dagon, to the dagger, then to Dagon again. She didn't need another hint.

She took the dagger with a trembling hand. It was a lot heavier than she had thought. The handle was, just as the other weapons on the man, made of a thick and pitch black metal of the like she had never seen before. The blade was made of bone as well, with the same metallic fuller, broad and short. Shyra looked up, into the man's grey eyes. For the last year, every time she had looked into a man's eyes she saw the same: prepotency, lust, disdain, cruelty. In this man's eyes there was none of that; only sorrow, sympathy and an absolute rage. Well, it was a start.

She nodded, more to herself than to the armored man, and strode off towards Dagon. Dagon Greyjoy. Dagon the Drunkard. Dagon the Rapist. The Rapist. The Tormentor. With each stride, her pent up fury started to boil. Almost a year of constant abuse, fear, beatings and rapes took over her, sparking a flame of righteous anger that drove her forward, to the man that symbolized that hell. She had been deprived of her vengeance over the others, but she still had Dagon, and he would do… for now.

Now she was before him, taking deep, angry breaths, clutching the dagger so tightly that her knuckles had turned white, so close that she could smell his hideous breath. The man had a look of utter terror on his face, the same that she had seen on each and every one of the women of the village since the arrival of these monsters. Then, the ironborn started to stutter, muttering under his breath.

"P-p-p-please, please, dear lass, don't do it. I've been good to you, haven't I? I didn't beat you up like Harl or Dagmer or Hraj did. I was nice! Show mercy, pretty la-"

"…What's my name?" hissed Shyra between gritted teeth.

"…your name?" murmured the reaver, a look of surprise and confusion on his face.

"If you say my name, I will show mercy. Otherwise, I'll gut you like a pig. What's my name?"

The look of absolute terror that befell over his visage gave her the greatest (and almost only) satisfaction she had on the whole year. Of course. She smiled under the rain.

"Of course. You don't know, do you? For you, I, WE, are only 'whore', 'slut', 'bitch', 'harlot', 'tart', 'hooker'… We aren't people for you, just holes to fuck and to serve you. You never, EVER had any mercy on us, never caring or hesitating before hurting us, before beating us, before RAPING US! And you have the gall, the NERVE to ask for mercy?!''

Shouting at the top of her lungs, the girl drove the dagger into the groin of the man, who paled and started yelling. She pulled back; the blood came flooding out of the wound, splashing her hand and sleeve. She ignored it and thrusted again, feeling with satisfaction how the broad blade cut the member of the ironborn away from his body. She stabbed again, and again, and again, relieving on the howls of the rapist, drinking them and feeling all the anger, the helplessness and the fear wash away with the blood of her torturer under the rain. She then moved upwards, stabbing at his mailed belly. To her surprise, the bony blade sliced through the chainmail with incredible ease; she grinned, pulled back and stabbed again. And again. And again. And again. She kept stabbing, yelling, crying, letting the pain of a year of torment flood out of her.

By the time she was done, long after Dagon's wails had died out, the man was an unrecognizable mass of stab wounds, blood and hanging pieces of meat, with his entrails trying to come out through the slashes on his chainmail. But still, the bastard lived. She could still hear gurgled breaths coming from the ruined mouth of her rapist; yet, she was done with him.

"My name... is Shyra, Dagon Greyjoy."

The trembling heap of meat and blood was hissing with his half-cut tongue.

"Shhhh-Shhh-Shhhhyyrrr-Shhhyyyraaaa…"

"Wasn't that difficult, was it?" she whispered. "Now, have my mercy."

The blade caressed the throat of Dagon, leaving a trail of open flesh, cut pipes and blood oozing to join the rest of the red coat covering his body. The man only trembled a bit more before finally going limp in the hands of the warriors holding him. They let it fall to the floor and casted a glance to the girl, full of understanding and compassion.

Shyra was panting heavily, suddenly too tired to keep standing up. The dagger slipped from her hands into the bloody mud under her and she fell to her knees, letting the rain wash away all her emotions and the blood in which she was soaked from head to toe. She closed her eyes, faced the weeping sky and enjoyed the rain, the liberty, the righteous vengeance, the feeling of not being afraid for the first time since her loved ones went to fight in the South. For the first time in her young life, she was free.

A hand touched her gently on the shoulder, and she opened lazily her eyes to see the armored behemoth looking down at her. He pronounced some of his odd words, but the questioning and worried tone and the care on his eyes made her guess that it was something along the lines of 'Are you alright?'. She nodded slightly, picked up the dagger and forced herself to stand. She wiped the blade on her sleeve and handed it to the owner.

The man shook his head and closed her hand around the weapon with both of his massive ones, pushing slightly towards her a couple of times. She pointed to the weapon and then to herself.

"You want me to keep it?"

The huge man nodded, a slight smile turning the corners of his lips upward. He then unbuckled the scabbard of the dagger from his belt and handed it to her. She accepted the new item and looked up at his face, a slight smile of her own taking over her features.

"Thank you, m'lord."

The man nodded again and turned to the assembled host of queer warriors, taking a few steps towards them. Shyra took it as her cue to leave and walked to join her mother, sheathing the blade as she walked. Her mother was smiling at her, a look of relief over her features; over hers and on the faces of every one of the other nine women. When she reached her, words stuck in her throat, her mother did something that she hadn't done since the death of Jojen. She hugged her.

And for Shyra, that was all that was needed.

The booming voice of her benefactor exploded behind her, roaring words in that tongue of his directed at his men- and women, as she noticed when she watched more closely- who nodded in agreement and support, with 'yeah!'s coming from the ranks from time to time. While he shouted he pointed to the dead bodies littering the village and to the Wolfswood behind him, and gave one final and booming word to what she supposed was some kind of speech, answered by a roar of approval that came from the warriors. The man then turned again to the villagers and started walking on their direction. Some women cowered and backed against the house at his approach, her own mother stiffening between her arms; but not Shyra. She knew that, whoever this man was, wherever he and his people had came from, they were friends.

The man reached up as he neared the group and took off his helmet, placing it below his left arm. Shyra was awestruck at how handsome he was, with his black and fiery mane of hair, with an odd, thick braid hanging at the left side of his face, his short trimmered beard, his straight nose and soft cheeckbones. Yet, what captivated her the most were his deep, bright, gentle grey eyes, which had burned with anger at the dead Dagon and watered with sorrow when looking at her on the longhouse. Now, those eyes were full of pride and understanding. She felt that his man could be trusted, no matter what.

He spoke again, in a tone of voice that suggested that he already knew that no one was going to understand him. True enough, all the villagers gave him confused or blank looks. The giant sighed through his nose and looked directly at Shyra. He then pointed to the dead ironborn with his index, to then point to the forest behind them and mimicked two legs running with his fingers. She cocked her head in confusion, so he repeated the motion. He sighed, seeing her lack of understanding; so he dropped his helmet and walked over to the corpses, took one of them like one would take a handkerchief and walked with it to the path that lead into the forest, using it as a ragdoll to represent an ironborn walking that path; that elicited a wave of chuckles or outright laughter among his troops, that he quieted with a glare on their direction. As ridiculous as the whole act was, it made a thought come to her head. She walked over to where the bodies had been piled by the foreigners and started counting. Thirty nine. Thirty men guarded the ships, and twelve had come from Deepwood Motte to loot their food.

Three ironborn had escaped the onslaught.

She looked at the huge warrior behind her, brow knitted and arms crossed, and the girl pointed at the dead reavers, raised three fingers and then pointed to the road. She then casted a questioning look to the man, who smiled brightly and nodded vigorously. She smiled too, realizing that this people, whoever they were, were decided to kill every last of the ironborns that they could.

That was something they had in common.

Shyra walked over to her mother and took her hands between hers.

"Mother, I have to go."

"Wait, what? Shyra, this people just freed us! Why would you leave now? Where would you go! Your father might return any moment-

"I know, mother," she said, with no small amount of pain at knowing that his father was more than probably dead, along with Joseth and Rogan, "but some ironborn escaped, and they surely went to warn their brethren of the deeds of this brave people. These fellows want to finish off those monsters, and I'm sure that they'll be able to do just that. I have to show them where to go, mother. I want to. I want to make sure that the last one of those devils is slain."

Her mother stared at her with watery eyes, the blank face that had haunted her visage for the last year menacing to creep back into her features. Then, she closed her eyes, shook her head and smiled.

"Very well, child. I won't ask you to stay here if you so desire to see this finished. We will stay here and restore our home to normalcy by the time of your return."

Shyra, eyes teary with happiness from seeing that her mother was starting to be a bit more like her old self, kissed her on the brow. She waved with a bright smile to her neighbors, relatives and friends and strode to the path with a confidence and a willpower that she hadn't had in a long time. She stopped by the beginning of the road and looked back at the friendly giant, gesturing him to follow. The man nodded and turned to his forces, shouting a few more commands. A hundred of them remained on the village, unloading crates and barrels from their ships and producing food and other supplies from them; food that they immediately began to distribute between the grateful villagers. The other two hundred formed two lines behind the behemoth, which obviously was their leader, and began to march behind him into the forest. She took her cue and started guiding the man deep down the road and towards Deepwood Motte, and by extension, justice.

 **AN: this is the song I pictured our friendly nord singing, which I find incredibly amazing.**

watch?v=a-HyYklN55U

After two minutes of silent walk beside her, the huge man started humming a tune. Soon after, he began singing in a marvelous, sweet, deep voice, pouring foreign verses that were soon picked up by his warriors, who began to sing at the top of their lungs on their foreign tongue. Shyra didn't catch a word of it, but it was the most beautiful song she had heard in a goddamn long time, filling her with a feeling of tranquility and the sensation that everything would be alright now; that her pain was finally over, and that now she could start walking the long path to healing and overcoming her nightmare. Now-

"Hasser."

She looked up questioningly at the man, who was looking at her with a slight smile.

"Excuse me?"

The man pointed a thumb to himself and repeated the word.

"Hasser."

He then pointed at her with an open palm, the question obvious. She smiled.

"Shyra. Nice to meet you, Hasser."


	3. Stannis I

**Author's Note** : Weeeeell... how do I put it... I began with this story after I had a sickness period during the last spring. Had nothing to do and was itching to occupy myself with something, and so I wrote. I got sick four more times after that in two months, which gave me cause to worry. After several tests and doctors, I've been diagnosed. It wasn't pleasant. I am optimistic with the outcome of all this, but just in case I'm going to update the story with the second chapter (which was written months ago, but I was never satisfied with the result and rewrote it several times. I'm still not 100% satisfied with it, but I might not have the time to waste second guessing me so much, hehe... heh... *cough*) because it was just about damn time, wasn't it? I apologize for the delay and I hope the wait was worthwhile. It's shorter than the previous chapter, but I intend to make it up on the next one, that I'll try to cook up as soon as possible.

For Sovngarde!

The Dark Chronist

 **Disclaimer** : I do not own The Elder Scrolls franchise nor A Song of Ice and Fire, each belonging to Bethesda Softworks and George R. R. Martin respectively. All characters, places and events other than those of my own invention are their intellectual property. All other intellectual property as songs or poetry or quotes belong to their respective owners.

 **Stannis I**

"The castle has been taken, your Grace" said the knight leading the scouting party, a burly man in Chyttering colors.

Clenched teeth began grinding together.

"By whom?"

The two riders behind the Chyttering knight looked nervously at each other. The scouting leader swallowed and looked sheepishly at his visibly upset liege.

"We… don't know, your Grace."

The grinding intensified.

"You don't know." It wasn't a question.

"No, my King. None of us recognize most of the banners, sans for the Glover's colors on the wall and towers. No Krakens, though, nor any of their vassal houses. The northerners claim that they don't recognize them either."

"Aye, m' king" a hairy clansmen in furs and rusty chainmail sitting atop an even hairier horse interjected from beside the Chyttering. "Wherever those banners are from, they ain't from these lands."

 _So, neither southern nor northerners. Interesting._

"How many are there?"

"From what we could tell, the walls are well manned and there are several dozen men working outside the place, setting up further defenses. Maybe some hundred and a half, but could be more inside the Motte."

The jaw unclenched some, the grinding halted for now.

"Did you attempt to parley?"

"No, your Grace, not without your consent."

Stannis Baratheon nodded, content. _They could use more initiative, but at least they respect the chain of command._

"Ser Justin."

"Your Grace?" answered the blonde, quickly stepping to his side.

"You will fly the parley banner. Mount up. Wull, Fell, Horpe and Farring, you're coming as well."

===O===

The six horsemen rode for half an hour through the woods in mostly silence; Stannis at the head, with Massey with the rainbow coloured parley banner at his right; then Wull and Horpe with the Direwolf and the Stag banners respectively, and Fell and Farring closing the column. They all were nervous and eager to find out just who occupied the Motte now. When they were nearing the end of the tree line Stannis squinted to shield his eyes from the morning light, so absent under the shadow of the Wolfswood. As his eyes adapted to his surroundings, the first thing he noticed were the arrow shafts sprouting from the grass like rigid flowers. There were a few here and there, but the grass was remarkably clean of blood around the arrows or anywhere whatsoever. A closer inspection of the ground revealed many dozen arrows strewn around the grass, that had been stomped by dozens and dozens of foots. Further signs of battle couldn't be seen until his gaze reached the walls, where the gatehouse exhibited splintered edges around where the hinges of the gate once should have been. Just outside the walls four men worked two large hand planes to give the finishing touches to the replacement of the doors destroyed in what likely had been the storming of the place. _By whom, it still remains to be seen._ As the scouts had said, two scores of men worked on deepening and widening the moat surrounding the walls, setting up a small circular palisade of dirt and a line of sharpened stakes along it. The work was overseen by several armed men, around half of them in Glover colors, the rest in queer armor and sigils that he had never sighted before. Not just in the coats of the soldiers, but the wooden towers and battlements sported as well various banners that the Baratheon had never seen. Sure, the Glover mailed fist and the Stark direwolf flapped proudly on the main keep and on the towers, but as for the others… A sable wolf in a field of gules, an argent bear in a field of azure, three golden spirals in a field of green… paramount above the rest was a massive banner sporting a golden dragon over a field of bright crimson crowning the main gate. The sight of the dragon sent Stannis' jaws into clenching mode, but he forced himself to relax. The Targaryen dragon (or the Blackfyre at that) was of a different colour and had three heads; yet the memory of the dragon flag flying alongside the golden rose and the red huntsman in front of his starving eyes was as fresh in his mind now as it had been for the last fifteen years.

The guards had spotted his half a dozen riders as soon as they exited the forest and now eyed them, cautiously and warily the Glovers and curiously and somehow amused the strangers. Stannis decided that it was time to learn who these folks were and to whom they owed loyalty, and so he spurred the horse forward, prompting his men to follow suit. As they approached, he observed an elderly man at arms in Glover colours whisper some words to a young lad working on the replacement doors, which nodded and ran off into the Motte. When they were some four meters away from the dirt mound, the same old warrior raised his hand.

"That's close enough, m'lords. State yer business."

Justin, with that stupid lazy smile of his ever present, leaned forward on his saddle and began, his voice clear and loud.

"Greetings, Ser. This" he said, gesturing in his direction "is His Grace King Stannis of House Baratheon, First of his Name, King of the Andals, Rhoynar and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm. I'm his sworn knight and voice on this parley, Ser Justin Massey of Stonedance. With us ride Lord Hugo Wull," the clansmen snorted upon hearing the title, which Massey ignored, " Lord Harwood Fell, Ser Godry Farring and Ser Richard Horpe. Who is addressing us?"

"Well, firstly, I am no Ser" the northerner spat into the moat and looked up again. "I'm Fred of Frosty Point, sergeant of the guard to House Glover. I reckon that I'm not the best suited to talk wharever matters've brought ye here, so if you would wait a few moments for the lady…"

As if on cue, a middle aged woman in a blue and gray quartered gown appeared hastily through the gate; the fetching boy, several handmaidens and four guards at her tail. The Glover men parted and bowed at the lady, with the foreigners just stepping out of her way. As she neared the Fred man, she stopped a pace behind him and bowed her head at the party.

"Greetings and welcome, my lords, to Deepwood Motte." she stood up and fixed her pale green eyes on Stannis' ones. "I am Sybelle Glover, acting master of the castle. If I've recognized the sigil on your coat correctly, I am in the presence of His Grace King Stannis Baratheon. It's an honor to make your acquaintance, Your Highness" said the woman, bowing again.

"Likewise, Lady Sybelle" answered the King, bowing his head slightly and stiffly.

"Sybelle! It's good to see you're safe and sound, child." boomed Hugo Wull from behind the King, making him start grounding his teeth yet again.

"A shared sentiment, Lord Wull. It's good to see a friendly face after such a long captivity." answered Sybelle with a warm smile and another curtsy.

"Precisely" interrupted Stannis."If you don't mind, I would rather cut short the pleasantries and get to the matter that has brought us here, my lady."

The woman rose from her bow and leveled a calm and composed stare into the blue eyed gaze of the stormlander.

"Very well, Your Grace. What brings you here of all places, sire? The last we heard of you, your host had been defeated by the combined armies of the Bastard Joffrey and of Lord Tyrell."

Stannis grit his teeth at the memory.

"That was… unexpected. And to be blamed on your Young Wolf letting Tyiwin's host escape the Riverlands." the lady frowned slightly at this for the briefest of moments, but Stannis didn't fail to see it. "But no, that was many moons ago. After that we reorganized our forces and sailed for Eastwatch-By-The-Sea. Didn't you got the ravens? Did your captors keep you in the dark about the Realm's whereabouts?"

"For the time I was firstly imprisoned I was, aye." her gaze fell to the floor for some moments, then rose to meet Stannis' eyes again. "The lady Asha would allow me to keep my children and handmaidens by my side and as comfortable as a prisoner can get, but she wouldn't let my maester visit us. When that cursed Balon died, his daughter took us to the Iron Islands with her, where we were imprisoned in Ten Towers. Althought…"

"Yes?" pressed the Baratheon.

"Well, 'imprisoned' might not be the best wording for it. The Lord Rodrik wouldn't treat us as such, at least. He shared his condolences for King Robb and for my husband's second imprisonment after the Red Wedding, and allowed us free passage around the castle and to the outside."

"Did he not fear you trying to escape?" interrupted Massey, to Stannis' annoyance. He leveled his knight with a glare, but dropped it as soon as the lady resumed her explanation.

"What escape, my lord? We had no coin, no keep nor army to use as leverage to get the locals to smuggle us out of Harlaw, and I would rather not trust the goodwill of the ironborn for that anyway. But he, the lord Harlaw, would treat us with deep respect and courtesy. He is unlike any other ironborn I've had the displeasure of knowing, so well mannered and erudite." she shook her head slightly and continued. "After the Crow's Eye crowning, though, Lady Asha wouldn't let me bring my children with me to the mainland. She needed me to secure the obedience of my serfs, but it would be easier for my children to slip out of her grasp than I am" she sighed. "Yet Lord Harlaw made a solemn oath to take care of my children, and he's been allowing them to send me letters every fortnight since. But that's all I've heard from the exterior since, and the Greyjoy would give me the letters from her own hand."

"I see", nodded the King immediately. "Well, the Wall has been under siege." the eyes of the woman widened at that, with her guards and maids getting startled by this and exchanging worried looks between themselves. He continued nonetheless. "The Watch was undermanned, less than one hundred brothers, and the Lord Commander Mormont had been slain by a handful of traitors during a failed expedition with most of the Watch's strength. One hundred thousand wildlings, led by their so-called King-Beyond-The-Wall, assaulted the Wall at several points immediately afterwards."

"By the Old Gods…" murmured Sybelle, visibly paler at his words. "Poor Jeor… But the wildlings, one hundred thousand?! Did they manage to break through?"

"Nay. The maester of Castle Black sent word to all of the castles on the Realm, and I answered his call. We managed to arrive at Castle Black in time with my cavalry, break their lines and capture Mance Rayder and most of his commanders. The rest of the force scattered into the Haunted Forest and don't pose a threat anymore."

The lady sighed out a breath of relief.

"Oh, thank the Gods for sending you, Your Grace."

"The Gods had nothing to do with my actions, Lady Glover. Only my conscience." declared Stannis sternly, and after an instant, "And a certain knight's counsel."

"Then I shall thank both them and you, sire." replied Sybelle looking back up to his eyes with a small smile. "You have saved the North."

"That is precisely what brought me here, my Lady. We reorganized our forces for several days and then set out to retake the North from the ironborn and the Boltons. In our march south, we enlisted the aid and oaths of fealty of all the clans of the north-west, and then of the Mormonts of Bear Island. We intended to take the Motte back from the ironborns for House Glover, but…" his gaze flew upwards, to the flags waving proudly in the breeze, "it would seem someone else beat us to it."

The woman looked up to the golden dragon banner as well, a strange smile upon her face.

"Indeed. It came as a surprise to us all, even the ironborn."

"This is why we opted to ride forward with a parley banner, Lady Glover", resumed Stannis, once again locking his steely gaze on her. "We don't recognize most of the banners on display, nor can we figure out who could have sent a force to take the castle. The last we heard from the Mormonts, Moat Cailin was taken recently by the Boltons, but I don't believe they would have flown the Direwolf and a Dragon banner and not the Flayed Man had they captured the Motte. Just who occupies your castle now?"

Sybelle tore her gaze away from the flag and locked eyes with the King. A bright fire burned on her eyes, with such a force and intensity that they gave the stormlander pause.

"Those, Your Grace, were the envoys of the Old Gods."

Stannis stared at her for some seconds, unblinking and stony-faced. The riders of his party shifted uncomfortably on their saddles.

"That's not very specific, my Lady." he said, several painfully slow moments later.

A small chuckle left the woman's mouth. She smiled again.

"I know, sire, and I apologize, but I'm afraid that's as close as one can get to describe them. But please, let's not talk further here. You are a guest of honor both for my House and for all the North, and I won't have you discuss such grave matters on the saddle of your horse. Captain Huss?"

"M'lady!" one of the guards following the lady, a balding man in chainmail and the colours of House Branch with a war axe at his belt and a round shield strapped to his right arm snapped to attention, nearing his liege.

"Escort His Grace and his men to the stables, and have them meet me at the Small Hall. They were deprived of their chance, but nonetheless they came here to free us from the ironborn, and as such we shall treat them as our liberators."

"At once, m'lady."

===O===

Some ten minutes later, Stannis and his party –sans Fell and Farring, sent back to the army to bring them to Deepwood- were being seated on the private hall of the Glovers, just above their Great Hall. On their way here, the party could take a closer look at some of the strangers they crossed paths with. Some of them looked normal enough, with plate armors and chainmails and leathers and plain faces. Others reminded Stannis of a weird mix of ironborn and wildling, for their braided beards and the style of their gear and smith work, but all individuals of this specific type he saw were remarkably tall; enough as to make Gregor Clegane look –tall- among them, but not monstrous as he usually struck people as. Then he noticed that several of the warriors whose helmets didn't conceal their faces had the most diverse complexions, from the dark ebon one would expect on a summer islander to ashen gray, green, golden and red. There were several females among their ranks, to his surprise. Others wore unnerving masks that seemed shaped as massive felines or lizards that concealed their faces completely, sans for their eyes, that he could have sworn were slitted as they followed him across the courtyard. He would have to ask Lady Glover about it.

Captain Huss scorted them to the room, were lady Sybelle already awaited for them, and stayed outside. Stannis and Wull sat on twin chairs in front of the woman, who sat on an ancient oak throne, its armchairs carved in the fashion of two balled gauntleted fists. Horpe and Massey stood at either side of the seated men. Various foodstuffs (sausages, cold smoked and salted meats, half a wheel of cheese, a cask of mead, several bread loaves and a small plate with salt) had been placed by the servants before their arrival in the room at a small table between them, but Stannis paid them no mind; not so the Wull, who was stuffing his mouth with smoked sausages with his right hand while holding a mug of mead on his left. Stannis glared at his newest vassal and simply took a pinch of bread that he pressed against the plate of salt. After he had taken a bite of it, methodically chewed and swallowed, he locked eyes with his host.

"Let's get back on topic, my lady. You were about to explain us about the conquerors of your castle."

"Of course, of course" said the woman smiling with eager anticipation. "I've sent word for the leader of the host to join us here as soon as possible, so meanwhile I will try to explain you what I can to the best of my abilities."

Stannis nodded, pleased.

"Very well. You said that this force had been sent by the gods. Could you elaborate on that?"

"Of course." Sybelle smiled. "You see, sire, the details of the nature and origins of these warriors I think would be best explained by themselves, but you should know that they arrived here sailing from the Sunset Sea." Stannis arched an eyebrow at this.

"Is that so?"

"It is, Your Majesty. They say so, and it has been confirmed by my people. Yet they're not ironborn, nor westerlanders, reachmen or Westerosi at all. They don't speak any kind of valyrian that my maester could come up with, and quite frankly, I highly doubt them being essossi, from Assai or even Yi Ti. No land we ever heard of."

She leaned forward in the throne, smile widening.

"I think they actually came from the world of the Gods and the spirits, my King. There is no other way to explain the might they wield nor their strangeness."

Stannis snorted derisively. The two knights in the room looked at each other, worried that the bluntness of their liege would upset their host. However, the smile of the lady did not falter.

"I'm sorry if I sound rude, Lady Sybelle, but that sounds terribly unlikely."

"Ah, but it won't be for long, Your Grace. You see, they landed a couple weeks ago, on Sea Dragon Point. They chanced upon a village being ravaged by an ironborn party, and while being completely oblivious to the laws and customs of the Realm they charged to defend the villagers. They slaughtered most of the islanders, but some fled back here, to report to their lady Asha, and so the foreigners pursued them for several days; when they arrived here, the ironborn met them with a hail of arrows and locked gates" her smile was immense by this time. "Now tell me, My King, what would you do if you found yourself in this situation?"

Stannis answer came immediately.

"After a chase of days, just after a disembark and with a force that hasn't rested since its last battle? I would set up siege lines and put my men to build some mantlets, ladders and a battering ram. A covered one."

"Aye, so would every competent commander in the same situation. Yet, that isn't what the commander of this force did."

Her voice was shaking by now with fervor and zeal, her smile absolutely wolfish, her rear barely in contact with her seat. Stannis resisted the urge to lean forward on his own seat in turn.

"What he did, and I swear by my children, my lord husband and all the gods that I saw it with my own eyes from my quarters, was to walk up from his troops' formation to stand before the gates, as if he didn't had a care in the world, as if there weren't stones, arrows and javelins raining on him. He squared his shoulders, planted his feet and…"

All four men were intently staring at the woman now, unblinking. Wull had even stopped munching on his sausages.

"…he shouted. He simply shouted."

Several seconds of blinking followed this declaration.

"…shouted?" murmured Stannis. "That's it? He shouted?"

"He shouted, yes. And the gates exploded as if the giant of the Umbers had crashed through them."

Some more moments passed. The three men lacking a crown exchanged several looks some seconds after Sybelle stopped talking, but Stannis kept his eyes trained on the woman, who had leant back on her seat and seemed to be incredibly amused with the whole situation. It was her who finally broke the silence.

"I assume that you are taking me for a lunatic right now, Your Grace. But-"

"Sybelle" Wull intervened. "Is this man within the castle?"

"Aye, my lord. On the Maester's Tower."

Stannis eyebrows furrowed together.

"Really? Why?"

"He craves knowledge" replied the woman. "He's been up there with his translator and maester Mort since after yesterday's supper."

"His translator?" an eyebrow started a slowly ascension. "I thought you couldn't identify the language of this people. Do they have someone who speaks Westerosi?"

The smile of Lady Glover turned a tad sad, her eyes dropping a little.

"Not quite. This translator is a girl from the village they landed on. She has told me some of the torments that she and most of my smallfolks have been suffering under the ironborn occupation. She doesn't speak their language, but they gave her a magic trinket that somehow allows her to communicate with them."

"That sounds a bit far-fetched, child…" murmured Wull.

"I tried the necklace myself, Hugo" Sybelle cut him. "I assure you that it works. I would have kept it myself so we could avoid the intermediary, but the Jarl was adamant in the girl keeping the object."

"The Jarl?" asked Stannis.

"It's his title" she explained. "The one of the commander of this folk, I mean. He is a nobleman in rank, but is revered as a god by his men. Well, and women" she smiled. "He's got many women in his ranks, like the wildlings or the Mormonts, just so many more than they do. You see-"

She was cut short by a curt knock on the door.

"My Lady, the Lord Hasser is here." came the muffled voice of Huss from the outside.

"Oh, marvelous!" the woman clapped her hands together. "Take them in!" she turned towards Stannis with a smile. "Let's proceed with the introductions then, shall we?"


	4. Hasser I

**Author's Note** : Well, I told you it would be done asap, didn't I? Heh. Anyway, I'm flabbergasted by the quick response and the amount of reviews and messages that the last chapter brought in such a short amount of time. I can't thank you enough for that, and I promise I'll keep this going and updated as soon as I'm able for you all, and to try to improve my writing to the best of my abilities for your further enjoyment.

I did notice a colossal mistake by my part in the prologue, in which I meant to borrow Quaithe's line of 'to reach the west, you must go east' but ended up simply writing 'you must go west'. If Hasser and co had sailed west they would be back in Tamriel, hah. I will correct that as soon as possible, but since I mainly work on a phone I don't have access to editing from the phone version. Anyway, on with the new chapter.

For Sovngarde!

The Dark Chronist

 **Disclaimer** : I do not own The Elder Scrolls franchise nor A Song of Ice and Fire, each belonging to Bethesda Softworks and George R. R. Martin respectively. All characters, places and events other than those of my own invention are their intellectual property. All other intellectual property as songs or poetry or quotes belong to their respective owners.

 **Hasser I**

"Ready?" he asked, glancing down at Shyra with a grin.

The girl gulped and nodded, eyes determinedly fixed on the door. Hasser's heart ached for the poor child; she wasn't used to deal with courts, lords and ladies, but until Kareena could properly learn the language of these folks, all the amulets of translation she could cook up were to grant the user knowledge of Tamrielic common. Sure, they could give the silver necklace to just anyone, but this duty would give the girl a distraction to keep her thoughts away from the horror that those raiders -ironborn, Shyra called them- had inflicted upon her and her village. Besides, she was brave, smart and strong, and seemed devoted to her current cause. Hasser could work with someone like that.

"Alright." He nodded to the guardsman, who nodded in turn and knocked at the door.

Some words by the guard were immediately answered by the cheery voice of their hostess, to which Shyra murmured 'she bids us entrance'.

The man opened the door to reveal Lady Sybelle sitting on a carved wooden throne, smiling warmly at them. Across from her at the other side of a well supplied table sat two men flanked by another two. The four of them seemed taken aback at the sight of Hasser; most likely due to part of his head being obscured by the door frame. Oh well.

Of the ones standing, the closest to him was a dark haired and dark eyed man, lean, clad in a dull grey steel plate and chainmail armor, a longsword and a dagger at his belt and grey moths sewn into his faded beige surcoat. His scarred face and grim gaze was a testament to his veterany; the other, closest to the door on the other end of the room, was almost his polar opposite: pale blonde hair, softly coloured cheeks covered by a short beard, bright blue eyes, a large and robust frame and a smiling face. His armor was simple chainmail under a clean white surcoat with three spirals of red, green and blue.

Speaking of polar opposites, so were the seated men; one was big and burly, hairy, coated in furs and dark iron chainmail, with a massive belly and a sausage and mug in either hand to help maintain it that way. Hasser took an instant liking to this man. The other was undoubtedly a commander and a nobleman, but he could have seen that even without the red gold crown sitting atop his head. He dressed modestly enough apart from the crown, with a black studded leather jerkin worn over a quilted doublet; his pants were of crude cloth, brown, and his boots were simple, unadorned, pretty worn and seemingly comfortable. What gave away his status wasn't his garment, but his demeanor and posture: rigid, upright, proud and collected, yet there seemed to be some discomfort to the man, like if he felt uncomfortable with his current situation. His dark blue eyes, though, went to narrow slits the moment the door opened and he took on Hasser, probably assessing his threat level. Even seated, Hasser could tell he was an impressive man; tall (compared to the average, not to himself), broad shouldered, square jaw covered in a short black beard and a thin circlet of equally black hair clinging around the border of his crown. He reminded him of Jarl Thongvor quite a bit, actually. Both seemed to be permanently chewing on a lemon.

His observations of the gathered men were interrupted by the warm voice of lady Sybelle, in a simple grey and blue quartered dress, with her graying chesnut hair falling over the front of her shoulders, who spoke some words to them and gestured to a chair to her right, at the side of the table between herself and the others.

"She invites us to enter and offers you a sit", informed Shyra.

Hasser grunted his acknowledgement and bowed as he entered, more to avoid hitting his head on the doorframe than out of reverence. As they entered the room, the hairy man in furs and dark mail commented something in a tone of awe. He and the blond stared at him dumbfounded, while the other two looked at him with caution and something akin to a predator being circled by another, bigger, meaner predator which may or may not attack them.

"That man comments that... uh..." Shyra hesitated before continuing, "that 'you are pretty -fucking- big'."

He laughed heartily and nodded to the man, who composed a yellow and crooked smile. He had made Shyra promise when they gave her the necklace that she would translate to the letter any phrase directed or refered to him, which had given the girl quite a few blushes, mostly whenever he walked near any of the local women, who since they took the castle seemed determined to get Hasser to knock them up. Not that it bothered him, mind you.

He proceeded to test the offered chair slowly sitting his massive form; other than an initial groan, the chair helf firm. It was a good thing that he had removed his armor before he started his interactions with the maester, he was sure that the chair wouldn't withstand his one hundred and thirty kilograms of mass with the addition of the half a hundred kilos of dragon bone and ebony chainmail. Shyra took a position between himself and lady Sybelle to his left, leaving the four strangers to his right. Satisfied, he slapped his knees with both hands and smiled to the owner of the castle.

"Very well, Lady Glover, here we are. What may I do for you? And who are these gentlemen?"

Shyra dutifully translated his words to the room, and soon she did the same to the softly spoken reply of the older woman, interjected with a hand gesture to the crowned man.

"They are part of the host of the lord Stannis Baratheon -the man with the crown- who is a king from the South." As Shyra paused, the lady continued talking for some more moments. "She says that they have just arrived from Castle Black, at the far North, from fighting a battle up there against the savages on the other side, from the lands beyond the Wall. They arrived here with the intention of freeing the Motte from the ironborn along with the rest of the North, but you did that before they could. They are curious about you and your company."

As Shyra finished her translation, five pairs of eyes were fixed on the nord. He nodded again.

"Maester Mort told us that currently these lands, these Seven Kingdoms, were being ravaged by a many sided war over succession of the high throne of this realm of yours." As he gave his answer, Shyra started to dutifully relay his words to his audience. "If memory serves, you were the brother of the late king, backed by the former governor of these lands -Ned Stark, of whom I've only heard high praises- in your claim to the crown. Also that you are uncle to the current boy sitting the throne. Now-"

As his words were being translated, the crowned man frowned and interrupted his words through gritted teeth. Shyra looked nervously between the bald -Stannis, he had to remind himself to address him by name or family- and himself.

"He says that he is no uncle of the usurper Tommen, nor was he uncle to the dead usurper Joffrey. They were abominations born of the incest between the Queen and her brother, as the Lord Stark discovered and told the Realm about, prompting the Lannisters to seize and execute him."

Hasser nodded. "Yes, I had been told as much by the maester. I didn't mean to offend; I was just summarizing my knowledge on your whereabouts. So, this lord Ned found out about the parentage of your brother's heirs, which in turn made you the new heir. I'm not really very concerned about the politics of your kingdoms, to be honest, although I hope that you manage to prevail. Out of all the current contenders the maester has told me about, you sound like the most capable and rightful one."

Stannis seemed somewhat pleased by his words as they were relayed to him, as the muscles under his tight skin seemed to relax a bit. Hasser continued, "Nonetheless, I understand your curiosity about me and my people, and I will try to answer to the best of my abilities. I will start by introducing myself: I am Hasser Stormblade, Jarl of Solstheim, rightful heir of the Ruby Throne, Grand Marshal of the High Kingdom of Skyrim, vassal of King Ulfric Stormcloak, Harbinger of the Companions, member of honor of the High Council of House Telvanni of Morrowind, Marquis of the Southern March, lord of Helgen, captain of the Alduin's Fang and Thane of the Nine Holds. I arrived at this coast on a special mission of my King Ulfric in an effort to find another of the denizens of our lands who apparently arrived at this country some time ago."

After the recitation of his titles and the name of his liege, Stannis and his companions seemed visibly confused. The Baratheon spoke some more, frowning dark blue gaze never leaving his own silver eyes.

"Lord Baratheon asks where your lands lie, for he has never heard of this 'Skyrim', 'Solstheim' nor anything of the like. He also asks about Lady Sybelle's claims of you coming from the land of the gods as their envoy."

Heh. Here comes the difficult part.

"Well... we did come sailing from the west, but we reckon that we are in a different world than our own. We didn't plan on it, but we were seeking that fellow tamrielic I mentioned and were told that he had come to the east; and so, following his trail, we stumbled upon your lands."

Another answer from the king, this time his eyes shifting to directly adress Shyra. The girl lowered her gaze to the floor as he spoke, intimidated.

"He asks if this might all be a misunderstanding due to the language or my translation, and if you don't mean 'land' or 'continent' when you say 'world'."

He sighed. "Tell him that by world I mean exactly that, world. Our constellations are nowhere to be found in your sky, and instead of our red and green moons you have a single silver-yellowish one. Besides, despite magic flowing in the fabric of this world of yours, it is far weaker than it was at any place within our own. Even ignoring that, your seasons -for what the maester told me- can last several years without changes, while in our world no season lasts more than some ninety days" Shyra stopped her translation for some moments as that last bit sank in, and she looked at him with bewilderment. He nodded with what he hoped was an encouraging smile and gestured for her to continue her translation. As soon as she did, he resumed as well. "Although some of our flora and fauna are common to both worlds, along with humans being present in both -and, according to maester Mort, old tales and legends also speak of giants and mammoths roaming this land in the ancient past, which would also be common in our world, but apparently they're extinct nowadays, if they ever existed-, we are confident in that we aren't in our world anymore."

He looked at the four men as they digested his words. The lean one didn't seem to believe a single word of his explanation, and now was simply glaring daggers at him. The big bellied old man was dumbstruck, mouth open. The king and his other knight seemed to be mulling over his words, considering what questions needed to be addressed first. The old man closed both his eyes and mouth, rubbed the back of his hairy hand over his face and spoke some words, looking again at him with a strange expression on his face. Hasser leant towards his translator, without breaking eye contact with the man.

"He comments that a winter of three months sounds too good to be true."

"Well, to be fair there are regions that have longer winters than the most temperate lands. My home, Skyrim, has parts of it permanently covered in ice and snow, with the flow of seasons only letting itself be felt on the central plains or the southern holds. Yet I was born in the city of Kvatch, far to the southwest, in the heartlands of the continent, and our seasons there were more definite and balanced."

Stannis spoke next, barely an instant after Shyra had finished her latest translation.

"He says that you mentioned being directed to this land to find whoever you seek. He wants to know if your people knew of our land before."

"Nay, we did not."

The translation was made. Several seconds of silent contemplation passed, with the only sound coming from the large jaws of the king grinding together. He looked up again and asked something else.

"He wonders who could direct you to these lands, if none among your people knew of this place."

Hasser rubbed his eyes with his index and thumb. He could feel rheum on the corners of his eyes; he hadn't had barely any sleep on the last days, spent tirelessly speaking with the maester, and now that the excitement of the gathering of new knowledge had dissipated he felt somewhat exhausted. 'This is the part of the story that requires them to trust me. And me to trust them.'

"To explain that, I need to explain you first the nature of our quest. You see, our Kingdom is at war. The nature of the war is irrelevant for the matter at hand, but know that we were forced to join the war of a neighboring kingdom that had previously vassalized our own to face a foreign superpower to ensure our survival. The first months of the war went well, initial triumphs in both land and sea had us disembarking on the shores of the enemy's homeland. We were winning more terrain by the day towards their capital, until our enemy resorted to the darkest rituals and deals with very powerful entities to turn the tide of the war. After the initial shock, we managed to organize an orderly retreat and to bring the war to a stalemate, containing the threat to a degree. But we had just fought a civil war before being dragged into this new conflict, and our resources and manpower are exhausted and we can't hold on forever. For this, my king freed me and my elite forces, the Tongues, of service, to seek out the spiritual and martial head of one of our allied states who might have further knowledge on how to battle this new threat. He goes by the title of Hortator of Morrowind, but most know him by his religious title, the Nerevarine. The last we heard of him, he sailed to the eastern continent from our own, Akavir, with unknown intentions. We followed him, with three vessels and three hundred men and women; after weeks and weeks of scouring by all the means at our disposition for any trace of the Nerevarine, we stumbled by chance upon a cave. Within it, we found the tomb of a Brandon Stark, called 'the Shipwright'."

The eyes of the big northener widened at this revelation. He had told Shyra and Lady Sybelle the whole story already, so one just continued to translate while the other smiled knowingly at the reaction of her countryman. The king frowned and exchanged some words with the northeners. Shyra leaned close to him.

"He asked for clarification on King Brandon's story."

He nodded and waited for the nobles to finish. As they did so, Stannis nodded his permission for the nord to resume.

"Well, as I was saying we found his tomb. On the stone, we found the last words of his page, some Hugh Icewood. Apparently he and his crew arrived to our world by accident, shipwrecked on Akavir, with most of the crew dying on the event. Only the page survived, and while looking for a place to bury his king he got himself mortally wounded by the fiendish natives of that part of the continent. Before his death, however, he buried Brandon and left a writing on the old tongue of your forefathers on the tombstone. When I touched this script, I blacked out and had a vision. On it, a massive three eyed crow spoke to me. It told me that a great threat was looming over a land to the West, just not my West. That this threat of death and ice would cause the death of all at its path, and that the Nerevarine had come to fight it by his own means when he got news of this. In order to find him, it told me that I had to sail further east, which was farthest than any other explorer of my land had ever been to. But we really need to find this man, and in order to do so we had to brave it. Hence, we sailed for six days into open sea, only to find us surrounded by mist on the nightfall of the seventh day. By morning, we had came ashore in your land, killed the ironborn there, left one third of our force to protect the village and our ships and chased the survivors to the Motte with our remaining two hundred. The rest, you already know."

The audience was deathly quiet as the last words of Shyra's translation faded into silence. The northeners had equal looks of devotion and amazement (more on the part of the man that on the woman), while the southerners had… inscrutable expressions. The northman spoke with a voice laced with emotion and awe.

"He says that you must indeed be an envoy of the Gods. The Three Eyed Crow is a great omen of blessing in our religion." Shyra explained.

As Shyra was speaking, the Baratheon said something to the northerner and then looked at him again. Luckily, the girl managed to pick up on it and promptly translated.

"Lord Stannis says that he doesn't know about omens of the Old Gods, but the fact that you know of the threat Beyond the Wall speaks volumes of the honesty of your story, for he and his host set sail for the Wall to battle that same threat." Before she could finish, Stannis said something else, in a lower tone. "He mentions that there is a certain woman who would have a stroke had she been present on this room."

Hasser smiled with a shrug. "Maybe. It's not a tale one hears every day, I guess."

The southern king spoke some more and started rubbing his stubble with a gloved hand and a distant look. After a brief pause, he stared at him again and asked a short question.

"He comments that if this Nerevarine you seek came to Westeros to battle the Great Enemy, then it is likely that he is either dead or somewhere Beyond the Wall, for there is where they gather their strength. He asks if, were he alive, would you intend to battle this enemy too."

"Of course", he answered with a nod of his black haired head. "Even if the Nerevarine were to be never found again, if this land is threatened by such a threat we could very well finish it off before returning to our own lands."

The bald nodded. His next reply, longer than any sentence that the man had uttered so far, caused the northerner to clap his hands together with a happy grunt, the blonde to smile and the knight of the moths to scowl. Lady Glover looked at him with a cautious look.

"The King says that if that is the case, you should join his forces. He says that since you shared the information of your war and your mission with him, it's only just that he shares his plans with you. He lacks the manpower to enforce his claim to the throne, but while the bastard child idles on the Iron Throne, he means to make himself worthy of the Realm by saving it, first from the usurpers bringing chaos into the Kingdoms and then from the otherworldly threat looming on the far North. He says that if you and your company are as powerful as the Lady Sybelle makes you to be, he will offer you all the aid in his power in your search of the Nerevarine if you first help him to drive the remaining ironborn on the North back to the sea and to restore the deposed Starks to their seat in Winterfell. If you wish to do so, he will sign a sellsword contract with your force to establish the terms of service and payment for this agreement. But before that, he requests that you take your forces out of Deepwood Motte, effectively restoring its ownership over to House Glover. He also asks for you to bring your full force, as you will need every able soldier you can gather for this campaign. You can anchor your ships at any port of the clansmen to the north, or take them to the docks of the Glovers just a few miles to the north should they choose to bend the knee to him. He also requests a demonstration of the power that you and your forces claim to possess by participating in the capture of another ironborn held castle, Torrhen's Square –the clansman seemed elated at that bit-. Agree to all this and he will be sure to pay you in gold and silver for your services and to extend his aid and protection to you for as long as you stay in our lands."

Hasser scratched the side of his bearded jaw, a pensive look on his face. Well, it was a good offer. They had no resources on this land, and they didn't had a clue on whether this people would accept septims as payment or what worth would they give to the tamrielic currency. They could forage for food, but three hundred people ate quite a bit, and he didn't want to gain the ire of the local nobility by hunting their game. Skyrim had freedom of hunt for the most part, but many forests of Cyrodiil and High Rock had its forest reserved as hunting grounds for the local nobles and burghers. Plus they could use some local guides and maps, sparing them of charting all this seemingly vast terrain from scratch. He wasn't very fond of the idea of serving a liege other than his friend and king Ulfric, no matter for how short a time, but this Stannis seemed like a decent fellow. For what maester Mort had told him, the ironborn had taken this and other castles in the North around a year before, while their King –Ron, Robb or something like that- fought a war of revenge in the South with most of their able men; after the murder of this one with most of his host, generals and family in a wedding on a castle to the south, the new overlord –apparently the very same man that had betrayed and murdered the fallen king- hadn't made any effort towards expelling the invaders either. The fact that this Stannis had taken upon himself to save a Kingdom that had actively rebelled against his authority even after losing most of his forces and supports at the siege of the capital out of his sense of duty impressed Hasser deeply. When the Empire abandoned the Reach to the Daedra worshipper Reachmen, only Ulfric took arms to restore Jarl Hrolfdir to the Mournful Throne, with a handful of friends, his sense of duty and his Thu'um as his only means. And they rewarded him with treason and imprisonment. He wouldn't let another man doing his duty suffer the same as his king had for doing the right thing. He could agree to the terms, and he was sure that his men would enjoy the promise of coin and fight. Yet there was something else to address.

"Shyra."

The girl looked quickly at him. "Yes, my Jarl?"

A sigh. Then he looked at her with a warm smile. "I've been two weeks telling you to just call me Hasser. You're not my vassal, we are friends." She blushed a little at his words, her eyes dropping a little as she nodded. "Listen. I will accept the offer of this Stannis, after consulting it with my captains and discussing the details of the deal, the different values of our currencies and such; but I am confident that soon we will be marching to that Torrhen's Square with his forces."

Her light blue eyes looked up at him again, a shadow of sadness veiling them. She nodded.

"I… I understand. I wish you luck, Hasser. I hope you succeed and drive those devils back to the sea."

His smile only deepened. "That's the point. I mean to offer you a place in my company, to receive the coin of this king, to get martial training and to give some payback to the ironborn. We will still need a translator until the lady that gave you this amulet" he poked a finger at the silver necklace at her chest, which deepened her blush, "manages to make one to allow us to speak your tongue, and I'm rather fond of the current person holding the office. Are you interested?"

A lot of expressions danced across the face and eyes of the young girl. Fear, uncertainty, excitement, anger, confusion… if personified, one could almost see her emotions fighting over control of the steering wheel of the vessel that was her. Finally, resolve settled upon her, and she nodded firmly.

"I would be honored. And grateful. But I would request leave to go back home and tell my mother than I will be absent for a bit longer."

"That's quite alright. I will be going there anyway to get Farkas and his company to take the ships to where Stannis directs us to, so you can come with me when I go. Although I fear the wrath of your mother for taking you away from her for even longer, heh…"

She smiled, for she was sure her mother would do exactly that.

"Well," continued the large man with a grin of his own, "then you can relay my acceptance to the King, at least until I have consulted with my captains. I look forward to work together in cleaning more castles of these wretches."

As the girl turned to translate his words to the southerner, Hasser stood to his full two hundred and fifteen centimeters and extended his hand towards the still seated man. After the last of Shyra's words were spoken, the man nodded firmly and stood in turn, to some respectable one hundred and ninety five centimeters. Oh, he was remarkably similar to Thongvor alright. The man extended his hand in turn, and both men grasped the forearm of the other, firmly, with steely grips of shared strength and determination.

 _This is the beginning of a beautiful friendship, I think_.

 **Author's Note:** I know that the last couple of chapters were a bit... let's say tranquil for a story of adventures following a violent band of merry murderers on their trip on the most murderous world to be ever adapted on the HBO (if we don't count Rome *cough*), but there should be plenty of skullbashing and shouting in the next one. That is, if I don't make a POV on Bran or Dany before. I plan on shifting the focus of the action away from the tamrielic adventurers from time to time, but while I am very sure of what I want to do with Bran, I'm not that sure of how to deal with Daenerys. HBO ruined my view on that poor teenager thrown into a monstruous world, so I might spend some time reading her POV to refreshen my memories of books Dany, and not the annoying moron from the show. I guess I'll decide on it depending on the reviews. Next chapter should take a bit longer, though (don't expect me to dump 5k words on a foreign language on a daily basis, heh), so I'll work it out before then. If you get an update on the story before then and no new chapter pops up, it means that I've corrected the mistake on the prologue. That said, I hope you enjoyed and you'll stick around for long! See you!

TDC


	5. Kareena I

**Author's Notes** : Hello there! Some matters need addressing;

Firstly, my health was degrading somewhat for the past months –as some of you already know-, which left me too drained to write anything. I meant to get the introductory chapters out of the way as soon as possible and then settle on regular chapters of 10k words every two weeks or monthly updates of some 20k, but my sickness caught up with me before I could. Now my treatment is done and I'm slowly getting back up, so I'll try to resume my writing, along with my planned schedule. This might not be the final result, but I'll try to have a modicum of regularity, so hopefully we won't have another massive hiatus like this one. By the way, sorry for that, heh. Or quoting Michael Jackson, heeh heeh.

Secondly, a few of you have raised questions and/or concerns as on the lore behind the background of the Tamriel band, as for canon divergences and the such; I've answered all questions on this regard so far (or I think so) to the people who raised them in pms or reviews, but I will nonetheless make a short clarification before we go any further. You see, I meant to reveal the tidbits of Tamriel's happenings as the story progressed, be it from thoughts of the tamrielic POV's, from direct speech of the said characters or through information delivered to the westerosi as their lives coexist. I think it's more organic to deliver it that way than making a separate summary with the timeline of events and happenings, but when enough info is delivered I will indeed make a separated 'story' detailing the timing and repercussions of the events that led to the quest of the Dragonborn and company, mainly for your reference.

Thirdly, I don't remember if I did it at the prologue, but I meant to establish this story as an AU, both for ASOIAF and for TES. Mainly to accommodate the coexistence of both universes, partly to help move the plot forwards. Besides, the world building of ASOIAF is more consistent –and scarce- than that of TES, which holds several contradictions from earlier sources to later ones, between contemporary sources, from sources both in game and out of it… that is bound to happen when a world is developed by a team of people bound to replacement rather than by a single mind like George. And quoting a certain someone, Nirn is "a world where cognitive dissonance is a law of the universe." Events overlap, replace each other, happen all at once and at the same time never happen. Then you have the CHIM, the Dragon Breaks, the Shezzarines… it's marvelously confusing and frustratingly beautiful. Beings transcend all laws and rules, be them moral, physical or metaphysical, in a semi regular basis; and in doing so, they usually drag reality along with them. What do I mean with all this? Some events –might- make you frown in confusion as to how could they be possible. In all those instances I've tried to forge a suitable and fitting explanation, but I am ultimately human. What I may deem an acceptable variable might be seen as a massive lore break by someone else, and if such an instance arises I apologize in advance, but I am not going to change them. This story is my ongoing ramble and divagations of how a party of tamrielics could alter Westeros with cheesy badassery and steamrolly overpowering the mere mortals that struggle with the shitstorms of the Sunset Kingdoms in my unending quest for fun, and I invite you all for the ride. You may like more or less the scenary around us, but you are the masters of your own fates (although Azura might disagree). If you find a too unforgiving change in the story that might make you quit the story, well, it will be saddening, but ultimately I'll keep pushing the story forward to what I want to build for as long as I am able, not to what others could want it to be. That said, I'll make a personal effort to explain every and all plot points that might arise in due time, and that if I am forced to alter lore in, let's say, hardcore ways (as in having Alduin temporarily ally the Dovahkiin, but nothing so extreme and silly, or so I hope. He's already dead in my story) I will do my best to make the changes acceptable as long as logic is concerned and to keep them to a minimum.

Lastly, you might have noticed that my writing is somewhat odd, in the sense of wording things in a way that no one would normally, abusing some expression by overuse, or simply setting scenes, dialogues or descriptions in a cruder way that anyone usually would in my stead. I haven't received any complain so far on the matter, but I prefer to clarify it should the need arise. English is not my mother tongue; I got two, and neither is English. As such, I am working with a language that I have to make a conscious effort to conform before typing it, which may cause the resulting text in being far less refined or elegant than it would in either of my languages. Bear that in mind when you read it and I will appreciate it immensely.

Oh, you should also expect some editing and changes to the story here and there. I noticed that the starting tamrielic year didn't fit some of the events and changes I wanted to make, so I'm going to move it to a later date. Also some editing on the last chapter, I wrote it during my first chemo session and it might be sloppier than I wanted it to be (not that I want them to be any at all, but still).

Well, thanks and sorry for having to bear with this massive author's note, I'm almost 1k words into the chapter without any actual chapter, heh. I hope I've eased the overall reading process of this tale and that you enjoy this chapter as much as I enjoyed writing it. Take care, y'all!

The Dark Chronist

 **Disclaimer** : I do not own The Elder Scrolls franchise nor A Song of Ice and Fire, each belonging to Bethesda Softworks and George R. R. Martin respectively. All characters, places and events other than those of my own invention are their intellectual property.

 **Kareena I**

"I still can't get used to it."

"Hmmm?" Hasser looked up from the massive cauldron he was stirring with an equally massive wooden spoon.

"This night sky" Kareena mentioned, gaze never leaving the moon. "Just a single moon, silver and so small. And," her hand gestured around the moon, to the stars littering the blackness "of course, the foreing constellations. I feel weaker without the Mage above us."

"That's what the stew is for", he said with a wide grin. "Once we've dined you'll feel better."

The Breton rolled her eyes and chuckled lightly.

"Hasser, trying to fix problems stuffing people with food. Oh my, stop the presses."

The nord shook his head, smile never faltering, and took a sip from the spoon.

"You're just jealous that your cooking can't compare to my extraordinary culinary skills." Another sip. "Hmm, needs more clove. Mind passing me the jar?"

The woman stood from the small bench she was sitting on and wordlessly went for the spices chest of her commander and friend, a meter behind them. Apart from a mighty warrior and a decent mage, the nord was one of the best cooks she had ever met, and so he never travelled without a fairly large supply of spices. After some rummaging through the contents, she found the cushioned pouch of clove jars and picked a half empty one. He accepted it with a smile and poured a few cloves into the stew, sniffed appreciatively and tapped his finger twice on the jar again, dropping as many cloves. Nodding with satisfaction, he handed her back the jar and resumed his stirring.

Kareena, standing beside him, watched him work in silence for a few moments, a small smile on her lips. This brought her memories from her college years in Wayrest, of the four years she spent with the kind giant working a few inches away from her and how often she would be mesmerized with him while he cooked. Those were simpler times. Happier times.

She sighed at the pang that nabbed at her insides and patted her friend on the back.

"I'm gonna keep working on the translation necklaces. I should have the last ones finished in a couple days, if I can keep up my current pace."

He bobbed his big, black haired head in acknowledgement, eyes fixated on the boiling bubbles on the surface of the dense liquid.

"Alright, but have an ear open for when I call for you. This won't take much longer, I just have to pulp the last chunks of fish."

"Well," she pecked his bearded cheek and smiled, "considering how sloooowly" she drawled playfully the last word "you do just about everything, I should be able to finish half a dozen more before then."

She left laughing heartily, dodging the playful punch that Hasser threw her way and jogged away from the grumbling behemoth, making her way to her tent.

The first night after leaving Deepwood, the camp of the westerosi host occupied the whole clearing around an abandoned holdfast of the Wolfswood where they would be spending the night. Seeing this, the tamrielics had proceeded to clear a small chunk of the forest next to their patron's camp -with permission from the king- in less than half an hour, which earned some impressed and wary glances from the natives. The party of three hundred, including the crews of their ships -which had been begrudgingly left behind under oaths from the Glovers to keep them safe and well guarded-, had cleared and leveled a decent chunk of terrain –a little under an acre- and set up a perfectly orderly camp before the other army had even finished digging their latrines. Granted, they had smaller numbers, but even if they had the greater host they would have been just as fast, and the westerosi knew this. They had travelled for two weeks now, with just a few days ahead before reaching Torrhen's Square, but the westerosi hadn't lost their wariness at the many times their group made open use of magic, be it for leveling terrain, starting campfires or putting magical lights on the perimeter of their area for the patrols. At least the northerners were mostly awed by their actions, due to their conviction of their godly nature.

Their northerner guides assured them that they were close to the edge of the forest, and if the ever thinning tree line was any indicator they were correct. The burly man that led Stannis' scouts had told them that very morning after breaking camp that they would be exiting the forest the next day a bit past noon, and after that it would be two days of rolling fields before coming in sight of the hills that dotted the south western regions of this part of the continent. At the feet of the easternmost hills stood their objective, Torrhen's Square, by the shore of Lake Torrhen –although one of the guides commented with a bark of laughter that the Dustins of Barrowtown and their Ryswell lapdogs insisted on calling it Barrowlake-, some four days or so away.

In the four weeks since they had joined the army of the Baratheon King, their numbers had increased with more than two thousand troops. The news of their victory –and their pledge of loyalty to the King meant that it was also his- had caused hundreds upon hundreds of locals to join the King's army. Fishermen, miners, farmers, lumbermen, ragged men at arms –survivors of previous battles who had taken refuge in the forests, apparently-, freeriders, the odd hedge knight every now and then… a constant flow of volunteers, all joining under the Baratheon banner.

For what she had seen of Stannis, he wasn't one to earn loyalty from his kindness or eloquence, but he had an odd kind of charisma that made the people who were under his direct command impressively loyal to him. Yet, the volunteers coming every day weren't joining him specifically, but rather were joining him to have a chance to fight their current overlord, who had slaughtered the family of the former liege of the lands. Now –that- man, that Eddard Stark, they almost worshipped him, like he was some sort of extraordinary saint. It was a pity that they hadn't a chance to meet him. This Bolton they were trying to overthrow was as feared by his people as Stark had been loved, which could be very useful and very problematic for them. They had been joined by three nobles of importance, unlike most of the ones making up Stannis' host. The first had been a warrior woman, apparently something uncommon in the North and almost impossible in the South, who had led a fleet of fishing boats against the unaware ironborn anchored east of Sea Dragon Point and had inflicted them a crushiang defeat, capturing many ships and prisoners. When she arrived at the Motte and found out that Sybelle had pledged to Stannis, who was questing to save the North and then aid the Wall, she had readily pledged herself and some hundreds of warriors to the King's army, which now numbered close to five thousand.

Then, after the first week of their march through the forest, they were joined by some four hundred lads, all armed with spears, under command of a mountain of a man by the name of Mors Umber. Apparently they had been scouting Winterfell under orders of Stannis, but had been recalled to rejoin his host the day after they signed their contract with the King.

The last decent sized force to join their army had been some Arnolf Karstark, a gnarled hunchback who brought another four hundred spearmen, two scores of archers and over a dozen lancers. He joined them the evening before this one, a few hours before they set up camp.

On the weeks it took Hasser to ride to the village where they landed with that girl –Shyra, she reminded herself- and then get back with the rest of their force, she had managed to grasp enough of an understanding of the common language of Westeros to create the opposite version of the amulet they had given to Shyra; where her necklace made the wearer capable of understanding and speaking tamrielic, the new ones were made to understand and speak westerosi. Well, it had been thanks to the understanding of westerosi that she had grasped and to the wisps of soul that she managed to capture and analyze from the dying breaths from one of their ironborn prisoners, who had succumbed to the wounds of the battle for the Motte a week after it.

Speaking of said prisoners, she glanced as she passed by to the large tent where they were being kept, near the tent of Hasser himself. He had insisted on bringing the prisoners along under their custody, claiming that they deserved it due to them being the ones to capture the reavers. Since the contract that they had signed with Stannis granted them the right to keep and ransom the war prisoners they made, the King didn't complain, and while lady Glover was terrified of what could happen to her children should the ironborn woman suffer any harm –apparently the daughter of their dead king and nephew to both the new king and to the captor of her children-, but Hasser had assured her that he would do nothing that could endanger her babies, and that he would do everything in his power to save them as soon as he was able, and she had relented. The ironborn were still fairly shocked from seeing the inner circle of the Dovahkiin along with their master doing their grisly work, and so far they were too terrified whenever one of them got to their cell wagon to even attempt an unpleasant comment.

As she neared her tent, nodding back at the soldiers that acknowledged or saluted her, the thudding of wood hitting wood reached her ears. Off to the side of the camp, beyond the trench and the small palisade surrounding the camp, some warriors clashed against each other in practice bouts, either to further hone their skills or to get some rust off. Most of them, however, simply stood in a circle watching the greenest of their recruits –barring the argonians and orcs- facing off against Vilkas. The seasoned Companion seemed barely breaking a sweat, but his sparring partner was wheezing raggedly, leaning on her wooden greatsword to catch her breath. Kareena smiled warmly at the sight; Shyra had fulfilled her usefulness after she returned with the rest of their force and Hasser to the Motte, since by then she had already developed a few reversed amulets of translation. Yet, Hasser had apparently taken upon himself to have her join their company as a warrior, but only if she trained in arms to not hinder the rest of his forces and agreed to stay out of the fighting until her trainers considered her sufficiently capable. She had rapidly accepted, apparently.

She sighed at the sight of the girl shouting to the top of her tired lungs and launching herself at Vilkas, who smirked and deflected with ease the quick succession of blows from the heavy weapon that the girl was throwing. She noticed that the attacks where far faster than two weeks ago, more controlled, and with more force behind them; the girl was definitely improving, but Kareena worried that she could be pushing herself too hard. Hasser had laughed it off, assuring that if anyone had went through the same hell that Shyra had endured, they would also push themselves hard for revenge and retribution. She thought there was probably something else to it, but otherwise didn't comment.

Leaving the fighters to their training, she walked the few meters to her tent. Smiling at the familiar mix of smells once she got inside coming of her dozens of alchemic ingredients and the ozone permeating her enchanting table -well, not exactly a table; more like the usual horned troll skull, the orb of souls and the symbols of the schools of magic drawn on whatever flat surface she had available- hitting her nose, Kareena opened her bag of soul gems and, grabbing the next necklace from the three hundred that Hasser had the smiths of the warband craft every time they set camp, she got to work.

* * *

"Archmage?" a voice called out from behind her tent.

"A moment", she didn't broke her focus, hands crisped on either sides of the table, channeling the energy of a soul gem into the fourth amulet since she began. When the last effluviums of the spell settled into the item, she released a small sigh as the energies within the orb stopped swirling and the symbols on the surface stopped glowing. She rolled her shoulders until she heard a satisfying pop. _Well, only seventeen more and we all will be outfitted with these._ She turned her attention back to the tent flap. "Yes?"

"The Jarl has called for you." she could hear the smile on the voice of the dunmer on the other side. "He says that dinner's ready, and that your presence would be highly appreciated for the sake of the rest of us."

She smiled in turn. Ever since the first time he cooked for her, she had to get the first bite of anything he ever cooked before anyone else, and she did the same for him whenever she was doing the cooking. Although that was a far less common occurrence.

"I'll be on my way."

After picking up the newer necklaces, she grabbed her own bowl and silverware and got off her tent. Most of the troops –sans the ones patrolling the perimeter- were already on their way, eager smiles on their faces and joyful comments and comparisons between the usual meals their commander served them. She smiled warmly, knowing just how much Hasser enjoyed cooking, and how elated he felt when people enjoyed themselves with his food. Few things could dampen his mood when around food, and fewer still could stop him from eating with his men. To strengthen the bonds, he said. Well, it was undeniable that it got results; any of the men and women serving under his flag would give their lives for him and follow him to Oblivion and beyond. An example being how well the men had taken the news of being in a different world; granted, many had started suspecting so after that thick mist swallowed their ships –even the less magically gifted of the crew noticed the invisible shimmer of magic woven in the fog- only to spit them on a completely alien shore, even more when they saw a single moon in the sky –although some of the khajiits had nearly fainted when they noticed it, their loyalty to the Dovahkiin being the only thing keeping them in line- and finally everyone else when they got verbal confirmation from their leaders. Some had expressed worry upon not being able to return the way they came upon fulfilling their quest, but Kareena was confident that whatever phenomenon took them here would be able to send them back; the chance of such a gateway being opened just as they happened to be sailing on the area was unlikely enough to quell most of her worries, but even if that had been the case they would find their way home. With a Dovahkiin and an Archmage on the warband they better did, otherwise it would be quite embarrassing.

A series of thuds and distant heavy panting broke her train of thought. Making her way towards it, she found that while most of the trainees had left for the cooking bonfires on the middle of the camp, Shyra and Vilkas were still clashing. But while before the girl was seemingly drained and the nord was smirking as he kept her wasting energy against his defense, now he was sweating profusely and cursing occasionally as the girl swatted his shield away with heavy blows to use the momentum of the swing to try to connect with his exposed side, forcing him to back away or counter with his wooden practice sword. She did seem on the brink of exhaustion, though, and only kept pressing her attack by sheer stubbornness. She might as well stop them.

"Hey!" her shout threw Shyra out of her concentration and made her lose the grip on her sword just a fraction, which slipped away from her sweaty hands after her latest strike on the shield. She fell to her knees, panting; Vilkas only relaxed his stance, but he too was taking heavy breaths and hung his head tiredly.

"You guys should drop it for tonight" she smiled warmly at them. "Dinner's ready, so wash up some and let's go."

Shyra sighed with a ragged breath and stood in wobbling legs, picking up her sword as she did for support.

"Of course, Archmage." She offered Kareena a small, tired smile when she finally stood to her full –not very impressive- height and made her way to the weapon rack holding the practice weapons to leave hers and then to a water barrel nearby to wash out the sweat from her skin. As she went, Kareena made her way to Vilkas.

"So… how is our newest recruit doing?" she asked with a smirk and a raised eyebrow.

Vilkas took a last calming breath through his nose and exhaled as he nodded a few times. "Better. Much, much better. She's small, but she has build up an impressive strength. Well, for this world's standards."

She nodded in agreement. "She was so skinny when we met her, you could have thought she was going to break if you blew hard enough. You guys have done a good work with her."

The Companion chuckled lightly. "The wonders of teamwork. Hasser puts meat on her bones, Farkas turns it into muscle and I put that muscle to good use. Tomorrow I will start getting serious with her; she has learnt how to deal blows and break through defenses, now she needs to learn to do so with an enemy that doesn't just defend."

"Do you think she will be able to join us when we arrive at the Square?" she asked. Shyra had finished scrubbing water to her face, arms and neck and now was patting herself dry with the hem of her shirt, showing off below the rim of her leather cuirass.

"Hell no. I'm sorry for her, I know she needs her catharsis and all, but Hasser made quite clear that he wants her to survive to be able to get payback, and even if we stuff her in heavy armor and give her skyforge steel and she manages to cut down the first few surprised ironborn, as soon as she finds a warrior with a modicum of experience she'll be dead."

Sigh. "Well, we will let Hasser tell her that. There is no way she's getting mad at him for it." She smirked.

"Ah, so you have noticed too?"

She snorted. "If there is still land afloat at Yokuda and there are people on it, they would have noticed. Now hush." She ended the conversation just as Shyra rejoined them.

"Shall we go?" the girl, despite her obvious exhaustion, beamed at them. Whether it was for the prospect of food, of meeting Hasser for the first time since breakfast –Stannis had them lunch on the march, with field rations of bread from the previous night and rashers of cold smoked beacon- or both, she didn't knew. She returned a warm smile anyway.

"Of course, dear. Let's get going."

Vilkas put his hands behind his head and took point, with the women walking on behind him. He looked over his shoulder. "So, what are we having?"

"Fish stew. Derkeeto and his foragers got some dozens of them on the creek to the west. It was oily and flaky, but when it was in the stew it smelled like heaven."

Shyra's smile grew even wider –she had been raised with fish and seafood-, but Vilkas pouted somewhat. "No meat?"

Kareena rolled her eyes. "Aela and her hunters got four boars, lots of rabbits and a couple deers. Last I saw they were turning on a spit, getting roasted."

A hungry grin split the nord's face, and he looked forward again, humming a merry tune. The Breton shook her head, while the westerosi just giggled.

Most of the camp was glaring at them when they arrived, hungrily clutching wooden bowls and spoons with evident annoyance. The meat wasn't ready yet, but the pungent scent of game meat battled with the marvelous smell of a delicious fish stew, and it was enough to make everyone's mouth water with expectation. It was hard to tell in the orange light of the bonfires, but she thought she saw a furious blush take over Shyra's features. She smiled to herself with another eye roll. Figures. Hasser was naked from the waist upwards, and the thick muscles of his back tightened and twitched as he stirred the pot with his back turned to them.

"So!" the booming voice of the massive nord startled the native girl. He turned with his usual placid smile taking over his features. "You're finally here. Miss Alemone, your bowl, please."

She sighed through her nose shaking her head with amusement and handed her friend the bowl. With a massive copper spoon, he took a helping of the boiling stew and it almost filled the silver bowl to the brim. She smiled and dug her spoon into the mix.

"Hold on", said Hasser holding up a finger. Reaching into a pouch of his belt, he sprinkled a few dried herbs into her bowl and then the rest of the pouch into the pot. He resumed his stirring, but he kept an eye on her as she sniffled her bowl to appreciate the change made by the herb. Ah, coriander. She took a spoonful of the stew and brought it to her mouth, the whole camp leaning forward in anticipation.

"I don't know how you manage it," she said after swallowing, a smile brightening her face, "but your cooking keeps getting better every day. It's absolutely delicious!"

A huge cheer rose from every throat, but she wasn't sure if it was for her favorable judgment or because Hasser was finally accepting the bowls of the men swarming around him and serving helpings of his stew.

* * *

"So!" the massive behemoth that was their leader said as he finally sat down by his inner circle, the last of the first round of dishes served. He dipped his spoon on the meal, took a mouthful, closed his eyes in momentary bliss and looked at Vilkas and Shyra, sitting on a bench across from the log in which he, Teldryn, Kareena and Golldir sat. "How is the training going?"

Shyra smiled shyly and looked at her own bowl. "Vilkas says I'm improving, but I'm yet far from any of you."

Said nord let out a bark of laughter. "She did put me in a tight spot today. Had we been using naked steel, I would have more than a few cuts."

"And I would probably be dead", mumbled the girl fumbling her food. The present warriors laughed lightly, but Hasser just smiled after another mouthful of stew.

"Ah, don't worry, you are making good progress. Not all recruits would manage to make Vilkas compliment them so, and most of them already had combat experience and training before joining."

The girl beamed at the praise, a slight blush coloring her cheeks.

"Thank you, commander." She cocked her head then, a thought occurring to her. "What about you?"

Hasser blinked, his cheeks puffed out with the food filling them. After downing all down with one mighty gulp, he questioned. "What about me?"

"Vilkas told me about your Order, the Companions-"

"I don't recall calling it being an 'Order'…" murmured the aforementioned nord.

"-and how you joined when he, Farkas and Aela were already on the inner circle of their leader, the Harbinger. He told me that they had their reserves about you-"

"I didn't." said Aela, joining them from the roasting spits, a smoking plate on her hands with a roasted piece of boar with a knife stuck on it.

"-but that this Kodlak vouched for you. He also told me that all initiates must prove their mettle against someone from the Inner Circle before being admitted, and if they show any promise they are welcomed among the Companions. How did you do on your trial?"

Hasser grinned from ear to ear and looked at Vilkas, who shifted uncomfortably on his seat.

"Good question. So, Vilkas, how did I fare?"

The lean nord looked obviously embarrassed. "Adequately."

"Hah" barked Aela, stuffing a piece of greasy meat between her shinny lips. "More like he swept the floor with you in a single blow."

"That's bullshit", retorted the cocky warrior indignantly, "and you know it. He was good alright, but I stood my ground without problems."

The more muscled, broader form of his twin brother approached from the fires, a smoking deer leg in his hands.

"Hey guys. What are you talking about?"

"Farkas! Did you finish your patrol turn?" chimed Kareena warmly. "We were talking about the practice bout between your brother and Hasser when he joined the Companions."

"Oh." He sat down next to Vilkas and put a hand on his shoulder. "Don't worry, brother. Despite that thrashing, we still think you a good warrior."

The thinner twin groaned and covered his face with his hands; Farkas just chewed on his venison absentmindedly.

"It wasn't that much, alright?"

"He sent you skidding across the courtyard." Added the dunmer helpfully, grinning wide behind his goggles.

"You weren't even there!"

Teldryn shrugged. "Your brother told me. And he's too honest to make such things up."

"Urgh. Have siblings for this…" he shook his head in defeat. "Alright, alright, I thought that he would be as strong as he looked, not trice as much. It was like blocking a bloody giant. I was overconfident, and my pride got a decent humility lesson that day. Please, let's not bring it up again, yes?"

"Of course" said Hasser, already finishing his bowl. Then he drew an impish smile. "For tonight, that is."

Kareena smiled at the laughs and the banter that followed that moment, while Hasser stood to get more stew and to sit for a while with some other group. He made an effort to at least spend a bit of time with every and all of his three hundred followers; the Dragonborn seemed to have the power to rise the spirits of his troops by his mere presence, and he liked his company to be in as high morale as he could keep them. It had been far more necessary while exploring Akavir, interestingly enough. Even being in another world, now they were met with a far less threatening environment and natives than in their eastern neighbor. Plus the men seemed to enjoy being an unstoppable powerhouse in this world; it gave them a sense of confidence and invincibility rarely felt at home, other than when fighting near the Dovahkiin when he truly cut loose. Then again, the most they had faced so far had been a few hundreds of ironborn raiders in close quarters, not a full army on an open field. This land seemed to favor heavy cavalry far more than Tamriel did; other than the High Elves, the Bretons and the Imperials, no race seemed to find usefulness in a large deploying of cavalry. Some redguard lords and princes would field the occasional pack of cataphracts, or the dunmer would send lines of guar lancers if they had enough open space to deploy them, but most races simply lacked the space on their homelands or that of their usual enemies to find usefulness in cavalry units. She wondered how well would they adapt to fighting against it.

She gazed again at the native girl, Shyra. While the twins argued about the impressiveness or lack of some of Hasser's feats –one hotly, the other nonchalantly- at her left and Aela munched pensively on her meal to her right, she was looking with an awed expression at something behind Kareena. She didn't need to turn to know just who was she looking at.

 _Sigh_.

"The girl is still smitten with the boss, huh?" whispered the dunmer sitting at her right.

"It would seem so." She answered on an equally quiet tone, the crackling flames further quieting their exchange. "I hope she doesn't act on it, I don't know how would she handle reject from her savior after what she's been through."

Teldryn smirked, but it was quickly covered when he put his red scarf back in place, his dinner finished. "You seem certain he will reject her. Is that ex lover's jealousy I detect?"

"Oh please." She rolled with her eyes. "We got over it in our twenties. No, you know how Hasser loves Mjoll, and how protective he is of the girl. And he is still the kindest soul of Tamriel. He would never do anything to hurt either of them, it would affect him more than any wound."

"I don't know, the lass is pretty enough, even for a human. And surely you have noticed just how tightly pressed against her is that leather cuirass. And if you did, our dear leader is bound to have done as well."

"Tsk." She slapped him across the back of his head. "Don't be a jerk."

The mer stood chuckling and donning back his chitin helmet and walked away from the group, leaving Kareena with her thoughts. She doubted that Hasser would do anything improper with anyone, let alone a girl who had been through the hell she had. But for all his virtues, her friend still had several glaring defects; paramount among them, his lack of ability to read people. He was too trusting, too innocent and too straightforward, and the people with traits opposing those utterly confused him. That was probably why he liked being around Farkas so much, they were two of a kind; but that made him specially oblivious to certain things, like sarcasm or flirting. Gods, how she had had to evidently come onto him to make him realize she was interested on him when they first met. How he had collected such a large number of lovers through his life of wandering and adventuring was beyond her. She should speak to him about the evident feelings of the girl, but that could wait after the oncoming battle. Hasser was almost invincible on a fight, but he deeply cared about almost everyone he met, and it would do him no good to have his mind clouded by worry over hurting the feelings of Shyra during the battle.

She sighed and looked at the night sky. Instead of Masser and Secunda, she was meet with the dull glow if the single, small silver satellite of this world, boringly dubbed 'moon'. Duh.

 _Yeah. Not getting used to it anytime soon._

* * *

Torrhen's Square wasn't an especially impressive castle, but it seemed strong enough. Unlike Deepwood (so far, the only inhabited castle they had for reference on this world) it was built on stone, with solid nine meters tall walls surrounding squarely the also square central keep, with four square towers at each corner of the square curtain wall. Huh, apt name. Only the arch of the only gatehouse provided some roundness to the angular fortress. While the Motte was surrounded by fields of oat and barley tended by peasants living on the fort itself, no such crops could be seen planted around the stone stronghold. Then again, they couldn't see anything other than snow.

It had begun falling on the last hours of the day they exited the Wolfswood, and it hadn't stopped ever since. Some of the southerners accompanying Stannis had expressed worry over the snow delaying them when they marched up the Kingsroad to Winterfell, but the northerners had laughed it off as the current blizzard being barely comparable to a summer snowing. The hindrance was evident, though, as the expected two days march had doubled by the difficulty for the southern men and horses to keep up pace with the northerners and the tamrielics, who either by magic or by nature were barely affected by the white mantle surrounding them. Hasser had assured that if the snow got close to being dangerous he would fix the problem, which was met with the incredulous glare of the King and his retinue. Heh, when they finally stormed the place they were in for a good dose of believingness.

Speaking of which, Kareena was walking alongside Hasser and his commanders –herself for his mages, Derkeetus for his scouts, Golldir for his shieldwall and Benor for his barbarians- towards the tent of the King. Stannis' squire, a young lad named Bryen, had come to the tent of the Jarl when they had just finished setting up their camp after coming in sight of the castle; the king required the immediate presence of the captains of the company and of Lord Stormblade, Jarl of Solstheim, rightful heir of the blah blah blah. Oh, how she wished that he hadn't thrown to the natives his full list of titles. He never did at home –for he never cared about them-, but Hasser had told her how the maester of Deepwood had insisted on the importance of titles for the westerosi nobility; the more and fancier, the better. Well, at least it provided his friends with banter to tease him with, to his groaning annoyance.

They were already outside the large tent of the king, the massive banner of the flaming stag flapping lazily on the frosty air just outside of it. One of the guards barring the entrance entered the tent upon spotting the advancing party, and within moments he was out, holding the flap of the tent open for them.

"Lord Stormblade, the King will see you now."

Her friend thanked the soldier and led the way into the tent. She was wearing her Archmage robes –whose enchantments she had complemented with repulsion to heat, cold and electricity-, so she didn't felt much of a difference when they found themselves within the warm and spacious tent. The same went for the three nords, but Derkeethus seemed delighted by the warmness of the place, judging by how the cold-blooded creature shuddered his scales with pleasure, throwing snow around him. Stannis stood behind a desk on his usual austere, practical and dark garments, leaning on the table and examining a seemingly freshly drawn plane of the castle, with the outline of the lake being the only noticeable thing on it beyond the walls and the central keep. He was surrounded by his knights, vassals and sworn swords, Peasebury, Fell, Horpe, Farring, Suggs, Penny, Massey, Wylde, Cobb, Wull, Burley, Flint, Harclay, Liddle, Norrey, other lordlings and leaders from the land and Alysane Mormont, Mors Umber and Arnolf Karstark. The latter was speaking hotly as they entered with his coarse and dusty voice.

"I must insist, my king, a siege to the Square would delay us too long! We should turn around and up the Kingsroad to attack Winterfell before the real winter begins. Bolton will not expect it!"

Stannis didn't even lift his gaze from the map as he traced with a finger the outline of the castle, deep in thought.

"The Ryswells and Dustins still support Bolton. I will not leave the mightiest fortress between them and our exposed backs in ironborn hands as we march for Winterfell. Besides, we could use further reinforcements. And, if the claims about Stormblade are to be believed, there won't be much of a siege." His dark blue eyes rose to meet the grey ones from the bone-clad behemoth. "Isn't that right, Jarl Hasser?"

Her friend flashed his easy smile through the mouth opening of his helmet.

"Indeed, your Grace. It will be our pleasure. Have you called for us?"

"Yes, I have." The stormlander got his hands off the table and straightened his back, waving openly at the map. "This is your responsibility now, commander. You and your mercenaries have your only chance to prove your usefulness here and now. Get that gate open for my forces before the day is out and your payment shall be fulfilled after we win the war, and you will have our full support in your quest as long as you require it. Fail, and you will be on your own, but still required to obey the laws of these lands, unless you want to be hunted down as outlaws."

Hasser shrugged nonchalantly.

"Fair enough."

The King pursed his lips, but didn't comment. He turned the map around so it was facing the entrance of his tent.

"How do you plan to approach the castle?"

"Oh, I won't need that." Said the nord waving his hand dismissively. "Nor any kind of intervention by your part. If you give us leave, we can get the attack going before the hour is out, and the castle taken before another passes."

Stannis blinked a couple times, his generals murmuring among themselves. His teeth started grinding after the bark of laugh of Umber and Wull took him out of his stupor.

"Leave then. Back your words with facts."

The tall warrior bowed deeply, a fist to his chest and a smile on his face. The gesture was mimicked by his retinue.

"As you command, your Grace."

As the tamrielics left the tent, Kareena still caught Hugo's bark of laughter, and his roar to the rest of the assembled westerosi.

"I'm sure as hell not missing this!"

* * *

Less than half an hour later the whole tamrielic camp had disappeared, and several scores of westerosi –Shyra among them, a scowl on her face for being left behind- watched from the palisades of their own camp as the warriors of the Dovahkiin marched in orderly rows towards the ironborn-held castle. Outside the perimeter Stannis watched astride his horse, flanked by most of his knights and lords and the entirety of the northerner mob watching with evident excitement, rolling off them in waves. Kareena spared them all a last glance before hurrying to join her mages in the last row of the tamrielic formation. Even from her position, she could make out the outline of Hasser's form at the vanguard of their force of three hundred, the ebony horns of his helmet gleaming in the pale morning light. The sound of six hundred feet marching in unison silenced most conversation, but the men and women still chatted animatedly among themselves, excited by the prospect of battle after several weeks of almost inactivity. After a few minutes of march, the tall walls of the fortress looming ever closer, Hasser raised his fist and the horn-blowers at each rank blew the two quick blows to signify a stop. The whole unit halted at the same time, only the frigid air making a sound in the quiet morning. Kareena squinted her eyes at the distant walls.

"They're firing a volley." Provided J'zargo helpfully, his sharp khajiit eyes making out the arrows despite the distance.

"Shall we raise wards, Archmage?" asked Illia, a spell already forming in her hands.

"No, the Jarl hasn't issued the command. We're probably out of arrow range, he wants to measure the reach of their bows." She answered.

True to J'zargo's words, the arrows soon became visible for everyone, the whine of their flight cutting over the murmurs of the crowd. And, as she had predicted, the arrows fell short by a dozen paces, dotting the white soil with their feathered shafts. A few moments after the last arrow embedded itself in the crusty snow, the booming voice of the Dovahkiin rang out.

 **Author's note: this is a good time to play Skyrim's main theme.**

"Shields up! We march in ten."

As one, all the shields of the first, second and third rows rose and covered the warriors underneath them. Kareena issued her orders and her mages also spread out among the formation, casting solid wards -her best contribution to the School of Restoration- above the heads of the warriors standing in the patches left open in the mantle of shields. As the ten seconds tickled by, every men, mer and beastfolk in their company could feel the air stilling around their leader, the wind itself holding its breath. She couldn't see them, but she was certain that their westerosi allies in the camp were feeling the same. Finally, as the last second passed by, she heard a deep intake of breath from the powerful lungs of her oldest friend.

" _ **MEYZ STRUN DU'UL!**_ "

The familiar thunder that accompanied the unleash of a thu'um roared along the shout of their lord, rattling bones and teeth as it went. Within moments, deep storm clouds gathered just above the Dovahkiin, swirling and crackling with lightning contained within. As the Storm Crown finished gathering, Hasser broke into a light jog towards the castle walls, all his host following suit. As they closed rapidly on the fortress, more and more arrow volleys rained on them, but the arrows were sucked into the swirling mass of clouds and spat outwards deprived of their impulse, bouncing harmlessly on the snowy floor. The ones that avoided the Crown fell uselessly on enchanted shields and magic wards, allowing the troop of three hundred to get close enough to the walls that they could make out the terrified faces of the defenders without a problem. At this point, the tamrielic archers started picking off enemy bowmen, firing through the openings that the wards provided.

After the last few meters were closed, Hasser raised his fist again, and the army stopped like one.

"TONGUES!" He roared.

Ghorbash and Derkeethus, clad in their dragonscale armors; Golldir, Kharjo and Frea with their dragonplate armors and shields and Benor, Erik, Ahtar and the twins with their two-handed axes and greatswords all stepped forward from their positions in the army. Forming a wedge with five warriors at each side of the tip that was Hasser, they all stopped a dozen paces short of the gatehouse of the castle. Again, the whole world seemed to hold its breath, anticipation building up within the guts of all and every creature within earshot of the area. Despite herself, Kareena felt a smile creeping into her face, wolfish and predatory. This was it, the power of the man they all followed, about to be unleashed. Every woman and man in their host had witnessed the devastating power of the Dovahkiin, but they felt just as awed now as every other single time.

The sharp sound of eleven lungs being filled at the same time made all the tamrielics brace.

 _Here it comes…_

" _ **FUS RO DAH!"**_

The collective shout of all ten tongues and the Dovahkiin was absolutely deafening. The shockwave that followed it sent a cloud of pulverized snow in every direction, completely enveloping the tamrielic army. She was sure that the King and his men would have a far better view of the result than they had, at least until the cloud settled; but she didn't need to see it to know that the gate was open.

Nor did Hasser need it to rush into the breach.

"Forward, Children of Skyrim! For Ulfric and Talos!"

A roar of zealous devotion rose from every throat in their host, Kareena's included. She summoned Icy Spears in both of her palms and rushed forward with the rest of the warband, crying in defiance and wrath against the rapist, raiding scum hidden behind the stone curtains. When she finally got out of the cloud of snowy air she could get a proper view of the damage. While the gatehouse was far sturdier than the one of the Motte, the iron portcullis had been blown open, the metal bent inwards like a god had punched through it; the whole center of the grille was missing, and the jagged ends of the fracture points glowed in a dull purple-white. The greater part of the barrier had been effectively _melted_ by the sheer power of the shout, while the double oak doors reinforced with iron bands were just smithereens scattered on the courtyard beyond the gate.

She couldn't help but feel awed at how frighteningly powerful had Hasser's voice grown; she had been there when he learnt his first shout, _Fus_ , and when he perfected it into the signature attack of the Tongues, the Unrelenting Force. While at first he could only push away whatever was hit by the disk-like shockwave carried by his shout, now the unfortunate creatures that stood too close to the beam of almost divine power would be disintegrated in a heartbeat, white hot ashes being the only testament to their previous existence. His Become Ethereal now allowed him to cross through solid objects, his Elemental Fury turned him into a whirlwind of death that could barely be seen as he wreaked havoc among the enemy ranks, his Whirlwind Sprint now carried him to incredible lengths; whereas before the shout would take him to a decent length in a few seconds, now his Voice could carry him to wherever it could be heard. In clear days, he could get from the Throat of the World to Markarth in a heartbeat.

She was sure that the dozens of dragons that he had defeated and devoured had only unlocked the knowledge to use the words, with his iron will and constant practice being what turned each shout into a monstrously powerful mean of destruction. That was your typical Hasser: if you gave him the means to improve, he would become a master of anything if he put his mind to it.

She shook her head clear of her ramblings and continued forward. From her position in the rear she had a clear shot at some of the archers in the battlements, so she nailed two with as many ice spears and kept rushing into the Square. As she passed under the gatehouse, she spotted several ironborn hacked to pieces around the courtyard; many of their own forces were rushing up the stairs of the walls to deal with the defenders, while Hasser and his Tongues readied themselves to shout down the doors of the central keep. She looked around her, at the gathering of battlemages and spellswords waiting for her orders. She looked around her to get a quick assessment of the situation; most of the shieldbearers had formed ranks and were steadily battling the ironborn in the courtyard, while the two handers were the ones clearing the walls, with the rangers and archers picking off enemies where they could. The halls of the keep would be too narrow to make an effective use of most destruction spells, so they should keep most of their wizards outside.

"Marcurio! You have command of the mages; take the walls and rain death on the courtyard!" the imperial nodded and rushed up the stairs, shouting commands to the score of mages closest to him. She turned to the two mages assigned to be her escort that day. "Illia, Aranea, with me!"

" _ **FUS!**_ " Hasser's shout, followed by thunder and the sound of the wooden door shattering, stirred her into action once again. Turning to the keep, she got a glimpse of the bone-white armors of the Tongues as they rushed inside behind the Dovahkiin.

 _Alright, let's get going before they leave us with no foes to slay._

It was easier said than done.

After five minutes of jogging through the halls of the keep, they had only found terrified servants cowering in corners, closets and larders and a trail of hacked down ironborns, hearing the eventual thunder of a thu'um being unleashed on the path before them. Every so often they would find heavily wounded enemies, and depending on their state the three mages tried to stabilize and then paralyze them for later arrest or to give them quick deaths.

Finally they reached the top of a double stairwell and were faced with a set of twin doors at the fifth story of the keep, blown open. At the other side stood the panting forms of the eleven bone-clad Voice wielders, facing down a score of ironborn. As they neared their allies, they noticed the ironborn holding a bunch of teenagers and a middle aged woman at knife point.

"Ah, shit. Hostages?"

As she stepped to the side of Hasser, she saw the annoyed grimace twisting his mouth. He was resting his bloodied _Zahkriizin_ on his shoulder, his left hand on his hip.

"Yeah. The stubborn fucks refuse to surrender; they want us to allow them to get out and give them fresh horses to reach the coast."

"Huh… I can't help but notice that they're still breathing." The ironborn looked absolutely terrified, cowering behind their shields and a great table turned a makeshift barricade separating them from the vengeful warriors. The one in the center seemed the leader, a white haired man with a hideous scar splitting his mouth vertically, taking deep, heavy breaths. He was laden with rings in his strong fingers, which now clutched a dagger pressed to the neck of the older woman so tightly that his knuckles turned white.

"Tsk. I didn't want to risk it with our lack of ranged options. Do you girls think that you can take the ones closer to the hostages as we rush the rest? That way I can get them to safety while you and the Tongues deal with them."

"Sure thing." She readied Incineration on her open palms. "On your mark."

He nodded, his posture not changing in the slightest as he sheathed the _Zahkriizin._

"Tongues," he called on a far softer voice than his usual battlefield roars, "Disarm on my mark." All the warriors readied themselves and waited for the command. The ironborn grew restless with each passing second of the current impasse and by the quiet talk of their enemies and started shouting profanities at them, urging them to hurry with their choice. Hasser raised his left hand, with three fingers outstretched. "Three… two… one… Mark!"

As one, the ten tongues unleashed their common cry, while Hasser shouted a different one.

" _ **ZUN HAAL VIIK!**_ "

" _ **TIID KLO UL!**_ "

Time slowed to a crawl as the power of the Thu'um made itself palpable. This shout was always unnerving for Kareena; it was like trying to make sudden movements under water and finding your every effort hindered by the invisible pressure around you, only one hundred times worse. Hasser wasn't affected by it, though; as the waves of power from the ten Tongues advanced to meet the ironborn at a relatively slow speed, Hasser sprinted forward along with it. When it reached the islanders, their weapons slipped from their hands and flew away, only that they did at a snail's pace. By then, Hasser had already reached the captives and was throwing the raiders holding the captives away from them. Despite the discomfort, Kareena forced herself to cast her spells as quickly as she was able, sending the slow-going ball of fire to meet the ironborn she had targeted. For what felt like several agonizing minutes, the tamrielics managed to get six spells in total sailing thought the air towards their enemies, while the tongues rushed at the speed of a drunken horker to meet them with steel; in the same amount of time, Hasser had brought to safety on the other side of the table the hostages and thrown away with raw strength most of the captors, that seemed to float peacefully in the air, inching slowly in the direction the Dragonborn had decided to throw them.

Then the effect of the shout passed and the room exploded in a blur of motion, with fire, lightning and ice streaking through the air and into the terrified reavers, ten warriors jumping over the table with cries of wrath and vengeance and the Dovahkiin turning on his heels and unsheathing his greatsword, turning his attention to the foe. Within seconds, in stark contrast to the agonizing slowness of their previous moments, all of the ironborn laid hacked to pieces on the ground, charred like coals or frozen to icicles. Hasser gazed around, weapon resting against his shoulder again, and shrugged.

"Mission complete, I guess."

Kareena chuckled and turned to the frightened ex-hostages that eyed their saviors with a mix of awe and terror. She kneeled in front of them and extended her open palms.

"Don't be afraid, please. You are safe now. We are soldiers of the army of King Stannis Baratheon. We are here to return the fortress to its rightful owners."

The older woman blinked owlishly, arms still wrapped around the teenagers, and straightened a bit.

"Stannis? We got news a fortnight ago that he had retaken Deepwood Motte and restored it to the Glovers. Is it true? Is he here?"

"He is, my lady." She tried flashing a reassuring smile. The four seemed to relax a notch, so she assumed that it had worked. "He will want to see you at once, I'm sure of it. As soon as we make sure that we have rooted out the last pockets of ironborn resistance, we will bring him to you. Are you lady Berena by any chance?"

The woman nodded.

"Aye, I am."

Kareena nodded in turn. She looked at the teenager girl, pale faced and still trembling slightly.

"Then, you must be Eddara."

The girl gulped and muttered a very soft 'yes'. Kareena took the hands of the girl on hers with a slow movement and tried her best motherly smile.

"Alright. We will have to wait until the King makes it official, but I think safe to greet you as new master of the Torrhen's Square. Congratulations."

* * *

 **Author's notes** : aaaand there we go. Again, I'm sorry for the lateness of this. I hope you found something to enjoy on it, and that you will stick around for the next one, which hopefully will come out sooner! Hugs to all!


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